DOVECOTE; 


OB, 


THE  HEAET  OF  THE  HOMESTEAD. 


- 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "CAP  SHEAF.' 


BOSTON: 
JOHN  P.  JEWETT  AND  COMPANY. 

CLEVELAND,  OHIO  : 

JEWETT,  PROCTOR,  AND  WORTHINGTON. 

LONDON  :    SAMPSON  LOW,  SON,  AND  CO. 

1856. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Cnngross,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

JOHN  P.  JEWETT  &  Co., 
In  the  Clerk 'x  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


•TEBEOTYPED    AT   TH1 


PREFATORY. 


THE  following  pages,  while  they  professedly  pursue 
the  fortunes  of  a  poor  waif  of  the  world,  are  especial- 
ly intended  to  paint  those  dear  old  pictures  of  home 
life,  at  the  thought  of  which  every  healthy  heart  beats 
faster  with  delight,  and  every  true  nature  reaches 
impatiently  forward  for  their  realization. 

The  story  makes  pretension  to  little  more  than  a 
simple  narrative,  aided  by  none  of  the  adjuncts  of 
dramatic  form  or  spirit.  If  it  interests,  it  will  do  so 
only  by  its  own  naturalness  and  truth.  Ingrafted 
upon  it,  the  reader  will  find  the  quiet  dreams  at  the 
hearth*  the  glowing  visions  in  the  woods  and  on 
the  hills,  the  sweet  memories  that  swarm  in  the 
old  garret  and  barns,  and  the  pleasant  meditations 
that  flow  out  of  the  heart,  by  the  brook  and  the 
river.  These  form — so  the  writer  considers — the 
very  heart  of  the  book,  that  will  keep  alive  and  warm 
the  whole  body  of  the  story.  If  there  is  too  much 
enthusiasm  in  them,  it  at  least  is  honest,  begot  of 

nothing  but  the  writer's  honest  purpose. 

(Hi) 


iv  PREFATORY. 

People  are  all  very  much  like  birds,  in  so  far  as 
they  are  given  to  nest  building.  Some  build  nests  of 
hopes,  and  perch  them  so  high  that  little  is  the 
wonder  the  winds  and  rains  beat  them,  in  time,  to 
pieces.  Some  build  nests  of  fears,  and,  like  the 
foolish  ground  birds  of  the  pastures,  squat  them 
where  they  might  most  tremble  for  their  being  trod 
upon.  Only  a  few,  J  ween,  build  nests  of  memories, 
like  the  doves  about  the  old  barns,  or  the  swallows 
under  the  home  eaves,  or  the  redbreasts  among  the 
apple  trees. 

I  have  been  building  here  only  a  nest  of  memo- 
ries. 

It  is  a  home  nest  —  into  which  any  one  may  look 
from  out  his  chamber  window.  If  it  is  large  enough 
for  but  a  single  world-wearied  heart  to  brood  in,  it 
will  not  have  been  built  in  vain. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  TAGB 

I.  —  ADRIFT,        .    •    *  ^   v  •'  V       .        .        .        .5 
II.  —  A  WELCOME  JOURNEY, 13 

III.  —  VISITING  ONE'S  RELATIONS,     .        ,        .        .19 

IV.  —  NOT  ALL  GOLD  THAT  GLITTERS,    ...        25 
V.  —  DOVECOTE, 33 

VI.  —  THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME,  ....  41 

VII.  —  FEARFUL  CHANGES, 48 

VIII.  —  THE  POORHOUSE, 57 

IX.  —  ADAM  DROWNE, 68 

X.  —  LlFE    AMONG   THE    PAUPERS,   ....  76 

XI.  —  MILLT  AND  MOLLY, 86 

XII.  —  A  BIT  OF  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  ....        92 

XIII.  —  IN  AND  OUT, 97 

XIV.  —  A  JOURNEY  BEGUN, 103 

XV.  —  AFOOT  AND  ALONE, 109 

XVI.  —  BEWILDERMENT, 115 

1  <*> 


2  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.  —  A  QUIET  NOOK, 122 

XVIII.  —  ON  THE  UPLANDS, 131 

XIX. —  THE  OLD  GAREET, 138 

XX.  —  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE,       .        .        .        .144 

XXI.  —  MR.  BRIMMER'S  BEE, 153 

XXII. —  BILLY  STOKES  AND  HIS  FRIEND,   .        .       161 

XXIII. —  A  SPRING  MORNING, 167 

XXIV.  —  A  DAY  AT  THE  BROOKS,         .        .        .174 

XXV.  —  MY  AUNT, 180 

XXVI.  — THE  GARDEN, 187 

XXVII.  —  SUNDAY  IN  SUMMER,          .        .        .        .193 

XXVIII. —  THE  OLD  SCHOOL  HOUSE,       .        .        .199 

XXIX.  —  A  PICTURE  WITHOUT  A  FRAME,        .        .  204 

XXX.  —  NOTHING  BUT  A  LOVE  STORY,       .        .      208 

XXXI.  —  A  DOUBLE  SURPRISE, 224 

XXXII.  —  OLD  TOPICS  REVIVED,     ....      230 

XXXIII.  —  THE  RUSTIC  BRIDGE,          .        .        .        .236 

XXXIV.  —  Miss  NANCY  IN  TOWN,  ....      241 
XXXV  —  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY,  .        .        .        .247 

XXXVI.  —  A  TUMBLE  IN  THE  HAY,        .        .        .253 

XXXVII.  —  A  WEDDING  IN  THE  PARLOR,    .        .        .258 

XXXVIII.  —  THANKSGIVING  TIME,     ....      264 

XXXIX.  —  THE  MAGDALEN, 270 


CONTENTS.  3 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XL.  —  A  LITTLE  STRANGER,  .        .        .  281 

XLI.  —  JARVIE  THATCH, 285 

XLII.  —  IN  THE  STREETS, 291 

XLIII.  —  THE  BOY  AND  THE  MAN,     .        .        .        .298 

XLIV.  —  A  JOYFUL  MEETING, 304 

XLV.  —  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN, 312 

XLVI.  —  A  WALK  AND  A  TALK,  .        .        .319 

XLVII.  —  A  VISIT  FROM  THE  DOCTOR,         .        .        .325 
XL VIII.  —  THE  FAITH  OF  A  CHILD,  .        .        .        .331 

XLIX.  —  UNFORESEEN, 337 

L.  —  THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  GOLDEN  BOWL,  .      346 
LI.  —  CONCLUSION, 355 


DOVECOTE. 


CHAPTER  L 

ADRIFT. 

THE  winds  of  a  cold  March  had  been  blowing  all  day 
through  the  streets  of  the  metropolis,  making  travellers 
hug  their  cloaks  tighter  about  them,  driving  like  a  pack 
of  hungry  hounds  in  full  chase  down  the  narrow  alleys, 
and  across  the  broader  streets  and  avenues,  shaking 
mercilessly,  the  rattling  windows  as  if  they  would  get 
in  at  the  houses,  piping  at  the  keyholes  and  crannies 
of  the  doors,  howling  about  the  chimney  tops,  and  final- 
ly scurrying  away  in  broken  legions  over  the  desolate 
looking  bay,  seaward. 

The  whole  month,  dreary  as  it  was,  had  not  produced 
a  day  more  dismal  and  uncomfortable  than  this.  The 
sun  had  at  times  shone  out  very  faintly  and  sickly,  and 
then  gone  sorrowfully  in  again.  Little  pools  stood 
every  where  along  the  gutters,  scum  over  with  a  thin 
crust  of  ice  that  was  far  from  resembling  crystal.  The 
horses  that  drew  the  lumbering  stages  up  and  down 
the  streets  held  down  their  heads  against  the  cutting 
winds,  and  crept  along  on  their  courses  with  a  sort  of 
sullen  resolution,  as  if  they  felt  that  they  had  earned 
their  shelter  long  ago. 

1*  (») 


6  DOVECOTE. 

Men  walked  briskly  past  each  other,  with  red  cheeks 
and  blue  noses,  exchanging  looks  through  their  water- 
ing eyes,  and  ,  seeming  to  inquire,  one  of  another, 
"  What  brought  you  out  on  such  a  day  as  this  ? "  The 
boys  did  not  stop  on  their  way  from  school  to  gaze  in  at 
the  windows  of  the  shops  at  new  prints  and  engravings, 
but  hurried  along  homewards,  some  of  them  shouting 
as  if  to  drown  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  their  ears. 
Now  here,  now  there,  the  mad  winds  drove;  gathering 
then-  forces  at  the  public  park,  and  by  concert  separat- 
ing to  charge  boldly  down  and  across  every  street  and 
alley  that  came  in  their  way. 

The  signs  kept  creaking  dolefully  in  the  more  unpre- 
tending thoroughfares,  and  the  little  shopkeepers  walked 
often  to  the  doors,  looking  up  and  down  to  see  if  there 
might  be  any  customers.  Newsboys,  and  beggar  girls, 
and  ragged  chiffoniers  were  all  that  rewarded  their 
anxious  pains.  One  class  was  trying  to  outcry  the 
winds ;  another  was  straggling  along  here  and  there 
with  low  moans  from  colorless  lips ;  and  the  third  went 
grubbing  doggedly  up  and  down  the  frozen  gutters, 
mumbling  over  syllables  that  had  no  meaning  even  for 
themselves. 

There  was  one  house,  hidden  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
obscure  streets,  where  the  rigors  of  this  March  day  were 
felt  in  all  their  severity.  It  was  a  high  and  narrow 
building,  all  of  wood,  with  its  paint  entirely  washed 
away  by  the  winds  and  rains.  The  windows  were  very 
narrow,  and  looked  as  if  they  might  in  other  times  have 
possibly  served  for  loopholes.  Dormer  windows  stuck 
out  like  humps  all  over  the  roof,  affording  to  many  a 
poor  family  all  the  light  by  which  they  knew  the  pass- 
ing days.  The  door  was  low,  and  the  lintels  wanted 
paint  badly ;  and  along  the  darkened  passage  were 


walls  that  might  once  have  boasted  of  whiteness,  but 
had  now  taken  the  most  picturesque  combinations  of 
color  imaginable. 

Along  at  the  farther  end  of  this  dreary  passage 
streamed  faintly  a  light.  It  betrayed  the  locality  of  a 
flight  of  wooden  stairs,  by  which  one  climbed  to  the 
second  floor  of  this  human  hive.  Another  passage, 
narrow  and  nearly  as  dark  as  the  first  —  a  turn  again  — 
and  a  second  flight  of  stairs  took  you  to  the  floor  above. 
At  the  head  of  this  flight  was  living  —  and  but  just  liv- 
ing —  a  pale,  thin,  ghostly  woman,  who  still  lay  upon 
her  scant  bed  in  the  farther  part  of  the  room.  It  was 
not  an  apartment  that  could  make  any  special  boast  of 
the  comforts  it  had  in  store,  being  carpetless  except  in 
the  corner  near  the  bed,  having  no  more  furniture  than 
was  just  sufficient  to  meet  the  every-day  necessities  of 
her  life,  with  little  fire  throwing  out  its  genial  warmth 
from  the  fireplace,  and  the  dispiriting  atmosphere  of 
sickness  breathing  every  where  around. 

The  woman  must  have  seen  better  days,  for  the  lin- 
eaments of  her  face  proved  that  she  was  born  to  them. 
A  little  child  stood  at  the  bedside,  whose  hand  she  held 
gently  in  her  own  thin  and  shadowy  hand,  and  to 
whom  she  addressed  words  of  consolation.  Yet  it 
seemed  that  a  trouble  was  on  her  heart,  and  that  nei- 
ther effort  nor  resignation  could  suffice  to  remove  it  all. 

"  Milly,"  said  she,  in  her  low  and  sepulchral  tone, 
that  struck  like  a  clod  upon  the  child's  feelings, — 
"  Milly,  you  should  know  it  all,  and  know  it  from  me ; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  soon.  I  must  die  !  " 

"  O  mother !  my  mother  !  "  exclaimed  the  weeping 
child,  clasping  tighter  her  mother's  hand,  while  she 
leaned  her  head  over  upon  the  bed  to  hide  her  hot 
tears,  "  you  must  not  leave  me  !  You  must  not  die ! 


DOVECOTE. 

Where  shall  I  go  then?  Who  will  take  care  of  me 
when  you  are  gone  ?  No,  no;  mother ;  if  you  die,  I  shall 
die  too.  I  cannot  live  without  you  !  " 

"  There  is  a  God,  Milly,  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lambs.  He  will  take  care  of  you.  Only  be  re- 
signed to  whatever  he  may  do.  All  will  be  for  your 
good  at  the  last.  Leam  to  trust  to  him,  and  he  will 
hold  you  safely  in  his  hand." 

"  O,  what  shall  I  do  when  you  are  gone,  mother  ? 
No,  no  !  you  must  not  die,  mother  !  You  shall  not  die ! 
Look  up  now,  dear  mother,  and  say  that  you  are  better 
It  will  make  -you  feel  better.  I  know  that  you  will  live. 
What  can  I  do  in  the  world  without  you  ?  " 

The  patient  parent  —  made  more  resigned  to  what- 
ever might  come  through  the  discipline  of  her  affliction 
—  calmly  surveyed  her  offspring  through  her  aching 
eyes,  and  sent  up  a  silent  but  fervent  prayer  to  Heaven 
for  strength  to  bear  it  all.  She  felt  within  herself  that 
her  last  hours  were  slipping  away.  Something  fore- 
warned her  heart  of  her  speedy  end.  She  could  not 
have  told  others  what  this  premonition  was  ;  yet  it 
wrought  none  the  less  forcibly  on  her  thoughts. 

"  You  must  be  gentle  as  you  always  have  been,  after 
I  am  gone,"  continued  she,  with  much  difficulty,  laying 
her  hand  affectionately  on  her  child's  head.  "  There 
will  be  no  need  of  repining,  Milly.  Only  leave  all  your 
trials  with  God,  and  do  your  duty  yourself.  Keep  my 
memory  fresh  in  your  heart.  You  will  never  forget 
your  dear  mother,  will  you,  Milly  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  so  tenderly,  and  in  a  tone  of 
such  deep  sorrow,  that  the  girl  burst  out  afresh  in  tears, 
and  sobbed  and  moaned  so  bitterly  that  her  distress 
filled  the  whole  apartment. 

It  was  just  as  night  was  gathering  —  night  after  tliis 


most  dismal  of  all  days.  The  shadows  began  to  creep 
down  from  the  roofs,  down  —  down  the  sides  of  the 
houses,  and  were  then  crowding  gloomily  at  her  win- 
dows. The  fire  on  the  hearth  was  low,  apt  type  of  the 
pulse  that  just  kept  itself  alive  in  the  wasting  invalid. 
The  ashes  had  turned  white  upon  the  last  stick,  col- 
lecting in  flakes,  and  then  crumbling  away.  Beside 
the  hearth  stood  a  kettle  ;  but  no  one  had  as  yet  filled 
it  with  water  for  boiling,  and  no  one  had  been  in  to  re- 
plenish the  fire. 

The  poor  woman  ever  and  anon  threw  up  her  eyes 
to  the  wall,  as  if  in  secret  prayer.  What  would  not 
have  been  her  comfort  in  that  hour  of  agony,  if  her 
child  could  but  have  laid  her  heart  against  her  own,  and 
both  gone  through  this  great  inward  struggle  together  ! 
How  much  deeper  would  have  been  the  satisfaction 
with  which  she  was  going  down  to  the  grave,  to  know 
that  the  lonely  heart  she  left  behind  was  thoroughly  im- 
pressed with  all  that  she  had  communicated  !  Yet,  for 
a  child,  Milly  had  comprehended  much,  though  grief  so 
cruelly  took  possession  of  her  soul.  She  could  point  to 
no  love  so  demonstrative  and  so  tangible  as  that  she 
bore  her  mother.  When  her  eyes  closed,  the  sun  of 
her  little  life  would  seem  to  be  put  out  altogether. 

As  night  closed  about  this  saddening  scene,  and 
while  mother  and  child  were  in  their  silent  sorrow  thus 
giving  up  the  secrets  of  their  hearts  to  each  other,  the 
door  of  the  apartment  opened,  and  a  woman  entered, 
bearing  a  light. 

"  Why,  Miss  Markham  !  "  exclaimed  the  person  en- 
tering ;  "  I  had  not  forgotten  about  you ;  but  I'm  so 
behindhand !  I'm  afraid  you've  suffered  from  want 
of  me." 

"  I  do  not  complain,  Mrs.  Stokes,"  returned  the  pa- 


10  DOVECOTE. 

tient.  '•  I  feel  that  you  are  too  kind  to  me  already.  I 
hope  you  will  live  to  get  your  abundant  reward." 

"  O,  never  talk  of  that,  Miss  Markham.  It  is  not 
worth  talkin'  of.  All  I  do  is  little  enough  at  the  most ; 
I'm  sure  I  wish  I  could  do  more." 

"  May  you  find  some  kind  hand  to  smooth  your  descent 
to  the  grave  as  you  have  done  so  tenderly  for  me  ! " 

"  Do'nt  go  to  takin'  on  so,  Miss  Markham,  Ibeg  of  you ; 
for  there's  no  use  of  talkin'  of  dyiu',  when  one's  no- 
where near  his  end.  You  ought  to  keep  up  your  spir- 
its, Miss  Markham  —  I  'm  sure.  You  oughter,  if  only 
for  little  Milly's  sake." 

This  remark  served  but  to  redouble  the  child's  dis- 
tress. Her  grief  had  reached  such  a  point  of  control 
over  her,  that  the  least  kind  allusion  to  her  situation,  or 
the  first  syllable  of  sympathy  from  another,  immediately 
set  her  heart  in  new  commotion,  and  caused  her  burn- 
ing tears  to  flow  afresh. 

"  Mrs.  Stokes,"  calmly  returned  the  invalid,  "  I  have 
told  Milly  all,  as  I  thought  it  my  duty.  She  knows  as 
well  as  myself  that  I  am  about  to  die.  I  have  told 
her,  that  she  might  be  prepared  for  the  worst." 

"  Miss  Markham,"  exclaimed  the  kindly-meaning 
woman,  "  you  shouldn't !  " 

"  I  have  no  one  to  leave  her  with,  Mrs.  Stokes ;  and 
it  is  that  that  mostly  troubles  me.  She  must  not  go 
into  the  streets  to  beg  !  She  must  not  do  that !  God 
have  pity  on  the  poor  orphan ! " 

"  La !  don't  worry  for  that,  Miss  Markham,  I  beg 
you  ;  I  will  take  her  myself !  " 

"  But  you  have  all  you  can  provide  for  now.  No,  no, 
it  will  be  too  hard  for  you." 

"  Can't  she  help  me,  Miss  Markham,  I  want  to  know  ? 
Can't  she  do  something  1  But  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  leave 


ADRIFT.  1 1 

her,  Miss  Markham.  You  mustn't  think  of  dyin'. 
It's  no  use  It'll  only  fret  you  sooner  into  the  grave ; 
and  every  one's  grave  is  ready  for  'em  as  soon  as  they 
hurry  themselves  into  it." 

Mrs.  Stokes  —  rude  in  the  very  gentleness  of  her 
heart  —  prepared  to  get  supper,  of  which  the  child 
could  not  finally  taste,  and  to  which  her  mother  did  no 
more  justice  than  merely  to  sip  of  the  tea  that  had 
been  made  so  nicely  for  her.  It  was  the  saddest  of  all 
times ;  for  night  had  come  down  with  its  mysteries,  and 
bedtime  for  Milly  drew  near.  It  was  only  after  a  fer- 
vent prayer  had  been  offered  by  Mrs.  Markham,  still 
clasping  her  arm  tenderly  about  the  neck  of  her  child, 
and  only  after  she  had  again  and  again  imprinted  a  kiss 
upon  her  forehead,  that  she  could  consent  to  dismiss 
her  to  bed,  expressing  the  hope  that  she  should  see  her 
again  in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Stokes  was  thoughtful  enough  to  carry  Milly  to 
her  own  bed,  in  the  next  room.  She  had  volunteered 
to  sit  up  by  her  mother  through  the  night,  and  thought 
it  best  that  the  child  should  rest  without  disturbance. 
If  any  thing  unusual  should  occur,  she  could,  if  needed, 
awaken  her. 

It  was  a  blustering,  boisterous  night,  and  little  was 
the  hope  that  it  would  bring  relief  for  any  who  might 
be  stretched  on  beds  of  sickness.  It  was  not  a  time  for 
weary  spirits  to  get  rest.  They  felt  instinctively  the 
influence  of  the  shrieking  winds. 

A  long  night  for  Mrs.  Stokes,  too.  She  dozed  in  her 
chair,  only  to  awaken  herself  by  some  sudden  impulse 
or  fear  that  gave  her  excessive  pain.  And  she  went 
through  the  trials  of  it  all — her  heart  bending  to  the 
storm  of  its  feelings,  as  the  trees  in  the  distant  park 
bent  before  the  blast  of  the  storming  winds. 


12  DOVECOTE. 

The  morning  dawned,  streaming  in  pale  and  faint  at 
the  dull  windows.  Mrs.  Stokes  still  remained  in  the 
apartment.  The  door  slowly  and  softly  opened,  and 
Milly  came  through,  shutting  it  carefully  behind  her. 
She  walked  straight  to  the  bedside.  Her  eyes  rested 
upon  the  face  of  her  motionless  mother. 

The  kind  nurse  and  neighbor  stepped  forward  and 
took  her  gently  by  the  arm,  drawing  her  backward  to 
where  she  had  herself  been  sitting.  Milly  looked  in- 
qniringly  in  her  face  for  an  explanation  of  it  all.  She 
was  much  bewildered  with  what  she  saw. 

"  Your  mother  is  dead !  Poor  child ! "  said  Mrs. 
Stokes,  in  a  whisper,  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  WELCOME   JOURNEY. 

MILLY  had  gone  through  the  fearful  crisis,  and  her 
heart  was  yet  unbroken.  She  had  witnessed  the  last 
rites,  and  tearfully  watched  the  solemn  ceremonies. 
And  now  she  was  motherless ;  motherless  —  yet  not 
altogether  friendless. 

Mrs.  Stokes  had  for  the  time  adopted  her  into  her 
own  family,  —  that  consisted  simply  of  herself,  her  son 
Billy,  and  the  baby,  —  and  appeared  anxious  to  do  all 
that  lay  in  her  power  for  the  child's  comfort.  She 
chatted  with  her  as  often  as  her  work  allowed,  and  in 
her  own  honest  way  strove  to  lift  the  cloud  of  gloom 
that  had  settled  upon  her  heart.  She  tried  to  interest 
her  in  "  the  baby,"  a  chubby  little  article  of  domestic 
comfort,  and  was  persevering  enough  to  behold  her 
wishes  in  some  small  degree  realized.  Billy,  too,  who 
cried  newspapers  through  the  day,  offered  her  freely 
from  the  rich  supply  of  his  sympathy,  and  neglected  no 
delicate  means  his  mind  could  devise  in  which  to  rid 
her  of  ever  so  little  of  her  grief. 

There  is  no  holier  sight  on  earth  than  the  pure,  out- 
gushing  sympathy  of  children.  It  comes  before  the 
heart  is  overlaid  with  the  coarser  feelings  that  worldly 
life  begets.  It  is  free  from  the  guile  that  selfishness 
breeds,  and  exhaustless  as  the  pictured  life  that  stretches 
before  them.  There  is  no  need  to  separate  its  elements, 
2  <13> 


14  DOVECOTE. 

for  all  of  them  are  as  unmixed  as  the  feelings  with 
which  their  impulsive  hearts  are  full.  - 

In  the  little  family  of  Mrs.  Stokes,  therefore,  Milly 
was  as  happy  as  at  that  time  she  could  have  been  any 
where.  The  recent  sorrow,  though  by  no  means  healed, 
would  sooner  become  so  here.  Mrs.  Stokes  had  been 
a  friend  of  her  mother,  and  so  she  was  a  friend  of  hers, 
too.  She  had  already  placed  her  second  in  her  affec- 
tions, if  only  for  the  kindness  of  her  sympathies.  And 
next  came  Billy,  and  then  the  baby.  And  in  this  quiet 
circle  she  daily  ran  round  with  her  heart. 

Billy  was  a  sprightly  and  highly  promising  boy,  but  a 
year  or  two  older  than  herself,  and  devoted  to  the  in- 
terests and  happiness  of  his  mother.  In  the  streets 
nearly  all  day,  his  presence  was  so  much  the  more  wel- 
come at  evening;  when  he  insisted  on  holding  the  baby 
for  at  least  an  hour  in  his  lap,  often  obliging  his  mother 
to  wake  her  for  that  purpose.  In  his  mind  he  had  al- 
ready planned  a  life  for  Milly,  designing  that  she  should 
stay  with  his  mother  as  long  as  she  lived,  while  all  his 
own  efforts  should  be  redoubled  to  secure  for  her  so 
pleasant  a  home.  In  his  soul  he  was  already  a  man  ; 
more  a  man  than  many  who  only  wear  the  name  of 
manhood. 

The  days  were  slowly  slipping  away,  one  not  very 
much  unlike  another  in  its  regular  round  of  little  inci- 
dents and  experiences,  and  the  suns  became  gradually 
warmer,  diffusing  their  cheerfulness  throughout  the 
humble  abode  of  Mrs.  Stokes.  There  were  beginning 
to  be  more  hours  of  daylight,  and  more  life  in  the  streets, 
and  more  business  every  where.  The  spring  was  again 
thawing  out  the  rills  in  the  country  fields,  and  the  cold 
from  the  human  heart.  There  was  a  secret  sympathy 
in  the  heart  for  all  this  exhibition  of  new  life,  and,  as 


A     WELCOME    JOURNEY".  15 

nature  began  to  smile,  the  soul  grew  glad  in  spite  of 
itself  likewise. 

Mrs.  Stokes  sat  down  beside  Milly  one  afternoon, 
after  her  work  was  all  done,  determined,  apparently,  on 
communicating  something  she  had  lacked  the  courage 
to  do  before.  So,  without  stopping  to  pave  her  way 
with  preliminaries,  she  began. 

"  Milly,"  said  she,  "  the  night  your  mother  died,  she 
had  a  good  deal  to  say  to  me  about  what  would  become 
of  you,  where  you  should  go,  and  who  should  take  care 
of  you.  I  offered  to  keep  you  as  long  as  you  would  be 
happy  here,  but  she  would  not  hear  a  word  to  any  such 
thing  as  that.  She  made  me  promise  a  solemn  promise, 
Milly,  before  she  died,  that  I'd  take  you,  jest  as  soon  as 
matters  would  permit,  to  your  uncle's  to  live.  I  prom- 
ised her,  because  she  made  me.  Milly,  I'd  love  dearly 
to  have  you  stay  with  me ;  but  as  long  as  it  was  your 
mother's  wish,  you  know,  for  me  to  take  you  to  your 
uncle's,  why,  I  don't  see  as  I  can  help  doin'  of  it.  It 
was  this  that  I've  been  so  long  wanthi'  to  tell  you,  but  I 
hated  to  trouble  your  mind  with  any  more  sorrow  than 
what  you'd  had  put  on  it.  You  know  Id  love  to  have 
you  stay,  Milly,  and  so  would  Billy,  and  I  guess  so 
would  the  baby." 

"  Where  does  my  uncle  live  ? "  asked  Milly,  scarcely 
able  as  yet  to  comprehend  the  entire  meaning  of  her 
unexpected  communication. 

"  He's  a  rich  man"  she  said,  " and  he  lives  back  a 
good  many  hundred  miles  in  the  country.  It's  Byeboro' 
where  he  lives,  and  it's  there  thajt  she  wanted  me  to 
take  you." 

"  But,  perhaps  he  won't  want  me  ? "  suggested  the 
child,  eager  at  the  outset  to  frame  objections  to  the  plan. 

"  Your  mother  said  he  could  not  refuse  to  take  you, 


16  DOVECOTE. 

and  I  promised  her,  as  solemn  and  sacred  as  any  body 
could,  that  I'd  see  her  wish  carried  out.  No  doubt 
you'll  be  better  off  there,  for  he's  your  mother's  own 
brother,  and  he's  rich.  You  can't  want  there,  Milly,  and 
you  might  here." 

"  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,"  said  the  child,  looking  up 
at  the  kind  woman  through  her  tears. 

Mrs.  Stokes  couldn't  bear  it,  and  drew  her  affection- 
ately to  her  breast. 

"  It'll  be  for  your  good,  Milly.  Think  of  that,  it'll  be 
for  your  good ;  and,  besides,  it  was  your  mother's  dying 
wish.  Won't  you  go,  Milly,  if  I'll  go  with  you  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  have  to  go  to-morrow  ? "  innocently  asked 
the  child,  and  cast  her  eyes  thoughtfully  about  the  room, 
as  if  even  then  taking  her  sad  leave  of  it. 

"  We'll  wait  till  it's  some  warmer,  I  guess,"  cheer- 
fully answered  Mrs.  Stokes,  "  and  then  the  cars  and  the 
stages'll  be  ready  for  us." 

And  forthwith  she  changed  the  topic  for  one  better 
calculated  to  inspirit  both  herself  and  her  little  friend. 

But  Time  never  halts  with  his  sack  at  his  back  to  beg 
for  favors.  He  trudges  remorselessly  on,  waiting  for 
none.  The  morning  of  their  departure  came  at  last. 
Billy  had  risen  much  earlier  than  usual,  and  lighted  the 
fire,  and  hung  the  teakettle,  and  was  waiting  with  a 
swelling  heart  to  bid  the  little  girl  good  by.  Mrs. 
Stokes  could  scarcely  eat  of  the  meal  she  had  prepared, 
though  she  kept  telling  Milly  that  she  must  eat  all  she 
could  get  down,  for  it  would  be  a  long  ride  for  them, 
and  little  would  be  the  dinner  they  could  get  besides 
what  they  carried.  The  baby  slept ;  no  one  had  wa- 
kened it.  A  neighbor  had  promised  to  now  and  then 
look  in  upon  it,  to  see  that  all  went  on  well,  while  Billy 
himself  had  for  the  time  intrusted  his  business  on  the 


A    WELCOME    JOURNEY.  17 

thoroughfares  to  another  boy,  designing  to  stay  at  home 
for  a  couple  of  days  with  the  little  charge  that  was  left 
behind. 

They  were  all  equipped  at  last  —  Mrs.  Stokes,  with 
her  large  red  shawl  on,  with  a  single  notable  figure  ex- 
actly in  the  middle  of  the  back,  and  Milly  in  her  hood 
and  faded  silk  pelisse.  Milly  had  kissed  the  baby  over 
and  over  again  while  it  lay  asleep,  and  Billy  had  run 
out  to  get  the  kind  neighbor  to  watch  it,  that  he  might 
accompany  them  to  the  depot.  Milly  looked  about  her 
sadly,  and  the  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes. 

"  Keep  up  heart,"  cheerfully  spoke  Mrs.  Stokes, 
scarcely  knowing  how  to  keep  up  her  own. 

It  was  a  long  and  a  weary  walk  to  the  cars,  though 
Milly  saw  much  to  attract  her  attention  by  the  way. 
When  they  reached  the  long  building  just  outside  which 
the  engine  stood  smoking  and  steaming  away,  Mrs. 
Stokes,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  in  hardly  less  con- 
fusion than  Milly.  She  ran  this  way  and  that  among 
the  people  who  thronged  the  platform,  as  if  the  success 
of  the  whole  trip,  for  that  train,  at  least,  depended  alto- 
gether upon  her  going.  Billy  alone  was  collected. 
He  was  used  to  crowds,  and  made  his  home  in  the  heart 
of  a  confusion. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  which  is  the  second-class  cars,  sir  ? " 
ventured  she,  addressing  a  gehdeman  in  whose  way  she 
happened  to  come. 

"  You'll  find  some  one  to  show  you,  that  way,"  an- 
swered he,  pointing  quickly  with  his  hand. 

"  I  could  tell  you  as  much  as  that,  mother,"  interrupted 
Billy,  perhaps  a  little  moved  by  the  lack  of  confidence 
she  seemed  to  have  in  the  amount  of  his  general  infor- 
mation. 

The  bell  rang  a  sharp,  clear  ring  on  the  frosty  morn- 
2* 


18  DOVECOTE. 

ing  air.  There  was  more  talking  among  the  people,  and 
more  confusion.  Every  body  seemed  to  be  shaking 
hands  with  somebody  else  at  the  car  windows,  and 
saying  parting  words.  The  train  began  to  move  slowly. 
At  first  it  could  hardly  be  perceived  that  it  moved  at  all. 

Billy  waved  his  hat  to  his  mother,  and  said  good  by 
to  Milly,  and  stood  like  a  statue  on  the  platform,  watch- 
ing the  train  till  it  dragged  its  snake-like  length  swiftly 
away,  and  finally  disappeared  round  a  curve  in  the  dis- 
tance. Then  he  turned  his  face  homewards,  his  hands 
still  in  his  pockets,  and  his  head  thoughtfully  to  the 
ground. 

There  have  been  saddened  people  in  the  world  long 
before  Billy  Stokes  came  into  it,  but  it  may  be  very 
readily  questioned  if  ever  a  sadder  being  than  he  took 
final  leave  of  a  friend.  He  had  known  Milly  in  her 
sore  trials  —  and  that  is  a  time  when  acquaintance  is 
thorough.  About  her  little  distresses  all  his  own  ten- 
der sympathies  had  been  intwined,  till,  with  her  living 
too,  in  the  same  house  with  himself,  he  had  come  to  re- 
gard her  with  all  the  affection  of  a  brother  for  a  sister. 

The  day  looked  dark  and  dismal  to  him,  though  it 
was  yet  early  morning,  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly 
along  the  streets.  People  were  stirring  every  where, 
and  bowing  and  smiling  to  each  other  as  they  passed. 
How  like  a  very  mockery  did  all  this  seem  to  the  heart 
of  the  little  newsboy,  on  his  way  back  to  his  desolate 
home ! 


CHAPTER    III. 

VISITING  ONE'S  RELATIONS. 

IT  was  just  at  sunset  when  the  mail  coach  set  down 
Mrs.  Stokes  and  her  charge  at  the  gate  near  the  road- 
side, and  the  country  mansion  of  Mr.  Trevelyn,  the 
uncle  of  Milly,  was  visible  through  the  trees,  that  had 
lately  begun  to  leaf.  As  the  vehicle  rolled  away,  leav- 
ing them  still  standing  by  the  roadside,  Mrs.  Stokes 
began  to  look  about  her  in  honest  astonishment.  There 
was  nothing  that  her  active  vision  did  not  take  in. 
From  the  distant  chimneys  to  the  gatepost  at  her  hand, 
her  eye  swept  with  one  of  the  most  comprehensive 
looks  imaginable. 

Milly  was  lost.  She  lacked  that  self-possession  that 
was  manifestly  a  prominent  part  of  good  Mrs.  Stoke's 
character,  and  so  stood  without  purpose,  and  almost 
without  wish.  If  she  had  any  desire  just  at  that  partic- 
ular moment,  it  was  to  get  through  this  unwelcome 
business  as  quick  as  possible.  So,  even  while  Mrs. 
Stokes  lingered  and  looked,  Milly  remarked,  in  a  half- 
impatient  tone,  — 

"  Let's  go  in  now." 

"  Certain,  my  child,"  responded  Mrs.  Stokes,  appar- 
ently just  come  to  herself.  "  Certain  will  we  go  in. 
I've  begun  to  wish  J  could  live  here,  too,  Milly.  How 
happy  you'll  be !  You  won't  want  for  nothing  in  the 
world." 

She  opened  the  gate,  and  both  went  through,  follow- 
as) 


20  DOVECOTE. 

ing  the  sinuous  path  through  the  trees  and  shrubbery  to 
the  door. 

The  residence  of  Mr.  Trevelyn  was  the  finest  in  all 
the  town  of  Byeboro'.  It  stood  a  little  more  than  a  mile 
from  the  village,  and  had  earned  the  character  of  the 
pleasantest  locality  in  that  part  of  the  country. 

The  house  itself  was  set  back  at  some  distance  from 
the  road,  and,  in  the  summer,  shaded  profusely  with  the 
foliage  that  was  made  to  grow  up  to  its  very  windows. 
A  high  veranda  was  built  about  its  three  sides,  on  one 
of  which  was  a  conservatory  of  choice  plants,  where  the 
humming  birds  occasionally  ventured  to  draw  their  little 
stores.  It  had  a  highly  imposing  appearance  from  the 
road,  and  certainly  failed  not  to  create  the  same  sort  of 
impression  from  within.  In  the  rear  stretched  away  a 
fine  tract  of  well-cultivated  ground,  where  Mr.  Trevelyn 
raised  his  vegetables  for  his  table,  and  his  wife  gave 
orders  to  the  gardener. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  walk,  and  went  round 
to  the  back  door.  The  first  person  they  met  was  the 
maid. 

"  Good  evenin',"  offered  the  ready  Mrs.  Stokes.  "  Is 
Mr.  Trevelyn  to  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is,"  said  the  servant,  eying  Milly  sharply. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  spoke  Mrs.  Stokes,  very 
promptly. 

"  Come  round  then  to  this  door,  will  you  ?  "  returned 
the  servant ;  and  led  the  way  on  the  outside  to  the  side 
entrance  of  the  house. 

Mr.  Trevelyn  at  length  reached  the  door,  and  looked 
inquiringly  at  his  new  visitors.  He  was  a  fine-looking 
man,  with  an  open  expression  of  countenance,  and  easy 
manners. 

Mrs.  Stokes  did  not  wait  to  be  asked  her  business, 
but  fell  to  it  without  delay. 


VISITING    ONE'S    RELATIONS.  21 

"  Is  tlois  Mr.  Trevelyn  ?  "  asked  she. 

He  only  bowed  in  assent,  folding  again  the  paper  he 
had  been  reading. 

"  I've  come  here,"  continued  Mrs.  Stokes,  "  because 
I  promised  your  sister  that  I'd  come." 

"  My  sister  !  "  exclaimed  he. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Miss  Markham." 

"  Emily  !  Where  is  she  ?  I'm  glad  to  hear  of  her  * 
Where  is  she  ? " 

"  It's  a  sorry  story,  sir,  I've  got  to  tell.  She's  dead, 
sir.  She 

"  Dead  !  Emily  dead  !  When  was  it  ?  Where  did 
she  die  ?  " 

The  astonishment  of  the  gentleman  was  uncon- 
trollable. 

But  Mrs.  Stokes  went  through  the  narration  of  Ids 
sister's  last  illness,  together  with  all  the  particulars  of 
her  death,  and  the  promise  she  solemnly  made  her  to 
see  that  Milly  was  safely  placed  in  the  care  of  her 
uncle.  It  was  a  touching  story,  and  the  brother  at- 
tempted not  to  conceal  the  depth,  or  the  sincerity,  of 
his  grief. 

"  And  this  child  is  Milly,  that  you  speak  of? "  he 
asked. 

Mrs.  Stokes  assured  him  that  she  was. 

"  Poor  orphan ! "  exclaimed  he,  in  a  half  whisper, 
and  led  them  into  an  anteroom,  bidding  Mrs.  Stokes 
sit  down  with  Milly,  while  he  went  in  to  talk  with  his 
wife. 

He  found  Mrs.  Trevelyn  in  the  parlor,  watching  the 
plants  in  the  conservatory.  She  was  standing  alone 
before  the  window.  Without  hesitation  or  a  length  of 
preliminary,  he  told  her  of  the  new  matter  thus  put 
upon  his  hands ;  expressing  his  earnest  desire,  at  the 


22  ,      DOVECOTE. 

same  time,  that  the  child  be  cordially  adopted  into  his 
family,  and  made  a  component  part  of  the  same. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  at  once  raised  her  h.;:ids. 

"  If  you  seek  to  make  a  slave  of  me,  Mr  Trev- 
elyn   " 

"  No,  Sarah  ;  I  do  not ;  I  desire  no  such  thing." 

"  One  would  think  we  had  family  enough  of  our  own, 
without  taking  in  other  persons'  children  !  " 

"  It  is  an  unusual  case,"  said  her  husband.  "  Her 
mother  was  my  only  sister.  She  died  poor,  —  in  want, 
for  what  I  can  learn  to  the  contrary,  —  and  I  did  not 
help  her.  What  can  I  do  less  now  than  take  her 
child  ? " 

"  Or  any  body  else's  child !  "  put  in  Mrs.  Trevelyn, 
with  a  flourish. 

"  Especially  when  it  was  her  dying  wish,"  he  added. 
"  How  can  I  slight  it !  How  can  you  permit  me  to 
think  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

"  Why,"  went  on  his  wife,  "  if  you  design  to  have  all 
the  poor  families  that  choose  to  come  put  upon  your 
shoulders " 

"  Wife  !  wife  !  "  protested  he,  in  a  voice  divided  be- 
tween sorrow  and  passion. 

She  certainly  should  have  stopped  there,  for  she  had 
gone  to  the  last  limit  allowed  her.  But  she  chose  to  go 
on. 

"  I  say,  Mr.  Trevelyn,  that  I  think  you  might  think  of 
doing  a  better  business  than  boarding  beggars  !  " 

For  a  moment,  the  exasperated  husband  could  not 
command  himself  to  say  any  thing.  Anger  had  got  the 
mastery  of  his  grief  now.  Before,  consideration  might 
safely  have  sat  at  the  helm ;  now,  nothing  but  impul- 
sive feeling  —  possibly  guided  by  good  instincts,  and 
possibly  not  —  could  have  direction  and  sway. 


VISITING    ONE  S    RELATIONS.  23 

"Beggars!"  he  muttered,  turning  on  his  heel,  and 
stepping  quickly  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  What  else  are  such  people,  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Trevelyn,"  returned  he,  "  what  was  I  myself 
once  ?  What  were  you  ?  " 

He  had  hit  the  nail  exactly  on  the  head  now. 
"  What  were  you  1 "  was  a  question  she  might  not  alto- 
gether be  delighted  to  answer. 

"  We  may  all  be  beggars  at  some  time  !  "  he  con- 
tinued. "  Who  knows  ?  Who  shall  dare  to  say,  Ahat, 
if  he  is  rich  to-day,  he  shall  be  rich  to-morrow  ?  Not  I, 
for  one ! " 

"  But  if  you  wish  to  provide  for  this  child " 

"  I  have  determined  to  do  it,  ma'am,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Then  why  not  do  it  in  some  other  way  ?  Is  it 
necessary  to  take  in  strangers,  and  every  body,  into 
your  family  ?  " 

"  She  is  my  own  sister's  child  !  " 

"  Umph  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Trevelyn. 

"  That  sister  I  could  not  assist  when  she  most  needed 
assistance,  when  I  might  possibly  have  saved  her  life, 
because  I  knew  not  where  she  was.  She  was  a  wan- 
derer, long  deserted  by  her  husband,  and  dependent  on 
her  own  exertions  for  her  livelihood.  When  she  died, 
her  last  wish  was  that  I  should  adopt  this  child ;  and 
she's  as  pretty  a  child,  too,  as  you'll  find  hereabouts.  Do 
you  think  I  can  refuse  to  do  what  has  been  asked  of  me 
in  this  way,  by  a  person  so  nearly  related  to  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  was  silent,  though  her  feelings  evi- 
dently had  undergone  no  change.  She  intrenched 
them  safely  within  a  sullen  resolution.  In  good  time 
it  would  exhibit  its  fruits. 

"  The  child's  mother  had  found  out  where  I  lived,  it 


24  DOVECOTE. 

seems,"  continued  Mr.  Trevelyn,  "  but  her  pride  for- 
bade her  coming  to  me,  as  she  ought  to  have  done,  for 
relief.  I  feel  deeply  for  the  sufferings  she  has  been 
obliged  to  endure,  and  shall  try  to  make  up  in  some 
measure  to  her  what  I  should  have  been  glad  to  do  in 
her  lifetime.  I  shall  take  this  child  into  my  family." 

He  pronounced  this  final  summing  up  of  his  de- 
termination with  great  emphasis,  and  immediately 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  Have  your  own  way,  then,"  returned  his  wife,  though 
not  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear. 

Mr.  Trevelyn  at  once  communicated  to  Mrs.  Stokes 
the  favorable  conclusion  at  which  he  had  arrived  in  the 
matter,  and  bade  her  take  off  her  things  and  stay  through 
the  night  with  Milly.  He  conducted  her  to  the  apart- 
ment where  the  servants  were  to  be  found,  and  gave 
her  into  their  care.  Milly  he  took  with  himself  into 
the  parlor.  The  room,  however,  was  vacant.  Mrs. 
Trevelyn  had  made  a  precipitate  retreat  on  first  hear- 
ing his  returning  footsteps. 

It  was  early  the  next  morning  when  Mrs.  Stokes 
took  her  leave  of  Milly  and  Mr.  Trevelyn,  —  for  she 
had  seen  no  others  while  there,  —  and  she  kissed  the 
child  over  and  over  again  at  the  gate,  lifting  her  in  her 
arms.  Mr.  Trevelyn  thanked  her  earnestly  for  the  in- 
terest she  had  taken  in  the  last  wishes  of  his  sister, 
and  insisted  on  her  acceptance  of  the- roll  of  bank  bills 
he  fairly  thrust  into  her  hand.  She  received  it  with 
tears  swimming  in  her  eyes,  and  hoped  God  would 
never  forget  to  reward  the  generosity  of  such  a  kind- 
hearted  gentleman. 

As  the  stage  rolled  off  from  the  gate  down  the  coun- 
try road,  she  had  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  her 
lips  were  muttering  in  a  low  tone  to  herself,  — 

"  Poor  Milly  !  you've  got  a  good  home  at  last !  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

NOT  ALL  GOLD  THAT  GLITTERS. 

THIS  is  an  adage  we  should  be  little  inclined  to  offer 
the  reader  again,  except  as  it  seemed  quite  as  perti- 
nent to  this  place  as  it  ever  was  to  any  other. 

Milly  might  have  fancied  she  had  reached  the  heart 
of  happiness  now,  because  there  was  such  plenty, 
even  to  profusion ;  but  acceptable  even  as  that  may  at 
all  times  be,  it  is  nothing  without  its  concomitants  in 
comfort.  Food  and  clothing  are  well  enough  as  far  as 
they  go;  but  they  certainly  do  not  cover  the  whole 
question.  The  satisfying  of  the  stomach  is  by  no 
means  the  necessary  provision  of  the  heart,  nor  does  it 
stand  in  the  stead  of  security  for.  the  heart's  happiness. 

Mr.  Trevelyn  was  much  absent  from  home,  particu- 
larly at  this  season.  He  had  his  property  to  look  after 
in  town,  as  well  as  in  the  country ;  and  by  far  the 
larger  part  of  it,  of  course,  lay  in  the  former  locality. 
So  that  now  Mrs  Trevelyn  had  full  sway  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  friendless  little  orphan. 

Prejudiced  against  the  child  herself,  she  had  taken 
pains  to  instil  the  same  feeling  into  the  minds  of  her 
two  daughters  —  Margaret  and  Ellen.  These  were 
still  quite  young,  though  several  years  in  advance  of 
Milly ;  and  their  principles,  one  would  naturally  think, 
might  have  been  intrusted  with  better  advantage  to 
other  hands. 

For  several  days  after  her  arrival,  they  scarcely 
3  W 


20  DOVECOTE. 

noticed  her;  merely  going  about  with  their  childish 
pug  noses  turned  up,  as  if  that  were  the  only  way  they 
had  yet  learned  of  testifying  contempt.  They  hardly 
spoke  to  her  even  at  the  table  ;  and  then  only  because 
their  father  seemed  to  be  determined  to  manufacture 
some  sort  of  connecting  link  between  them. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  had  told  them  who  she  was,  and  where 
her  mother  had  died,  giving  up  the  particulars  with 
most  wonderful  minuteness,  and  adding  thereto  numer- 
ous embellishments. 

"  She  was  nothing  but  a  beggar  woman,"  she  said, 
"  and  had  died  at  last  of  want.  It  was  all  a  vulgar 
affair,"  added  she ;  and  she  quite  wondered  at  Mr. 
Trevelyn  for  his  readiness  to  take  such  a  class  of  people 
into  his  house. 

"For  my  part,"  returned  Miss  Margaret,  "I  shall 
never  acknowledge  her  as  any  relation  of  mine  !  " 

"  Nor  I  either  !  "  chimed  in  Ellen. 

"  I  should  hope  my  daughters  had  more  pride"  con- 
curred Mrs.  Trevelyn,  "  than  to  think  of  such  a  thing. 
Why,  who  is  she  ?  Why  slimM  you  call  her  a  relation  ? 
You  have  never  known  any  thing  of  her,  and  have  not. 
so  much  as  seen  her  mother  !  " 

"  I  should  think  papa  would  hear  to  what  you  said 
about  it,"  suggested  Margaret,  who  was  the  elder  of  the 
sisters,  and  had  just  put  on  her  budding  airs. 

"  So  should  I,  too,"  echoed  Ellen. 

"  He  will  do  no  such  thing,"  replied  their  mother, 
sharply.  "  He  will  do  just  as  he  wants  to  ;  and  that  is 
enough  to  make  one  perfectly  miserable  ! " 

The  girls  looked  round  at  each  other.  It  was  not  so 
much  a  look  of  astonishment  as  of  inquiry.  This  was 
the  first  peep  they  had  been  permitted  to  take  at  the 
real  state  of  the  relations  between  their  parents. 


NOT  ALL  GOLD  THAT  GLITTERS.  27 

"  Milly,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyn,  one  day,  "  tell  me  what 
your  real  name  is.  It's  not  Milly,  I  know" 

The  child  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  What  name  did  your  mother  give  you  ?  " 

"  Only  Milly,"  was  her  meek  reply. 

"  Was  ever  such  foolishness  put  into  the  heads  of 
children  ?  —  and  poor  children,  too  !  "  exclaimed  she, 
turning  round  upon  her  own  daughters  with  a  sneer  on 
her  face.  As  if,  forsooth,  a  pretty  name  was  not  as 
much  a  fragrance  in  the  hovel  as  the  hall !  As  if  only 
money  could  purchase  natural  licenses  to  appropriate 
the  pleasant  phrases  and  the  sweet  names  to  one's  self- 
ish use,  while  the  poor  must  mob  their  words  and  names 
all  disagreeably  together !  There  is  more  of  such  a 
feeling  among  those  whose  gentility  is  but  another 
name  for  their  riches  than  might  at  first  be  readily 
received. 

"  What  did  your  mother  do  for  a  living  ?  "  pursued 
Mrs.  Trevelyn,  determined  to  debase  the  child's  feel- 
ings in  the  presence  of  her  daughters.  "  Did  she  go 
picking  rags  out  of  the  gutters  ?  or  did  she  sell 
oranges  at  the  street  corners  ?  " 

Milly  thought  of  that  mother  then,  just  as  she  lay  on 
the  bed  the  last  time  she  saw  her  alive.  Her  mind 
rapidly  gathered  up  the  last  injunctions  from  her  saint- 
ed lips,  bidding  her  always  to  be  gentle,  and  to  trust  to 
Heaven  to  carry  her  through  all  her  trials.  And  as  the 
recollection  of  all  these  things  rushed  over  her,  her 
heart  swelled  with  its  surcharging  grief,  and  she  sought 
immediate  relief  in  a  passionate  flood  of  tears. 

"  Crying  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Trevelyn.  "  Then  you're  one 
of  the  crying  sort,  are  you?  I  fancy  your  mother 
must  have  made  a  great  pet  of  you,  for  a  street  beg- 
gar!" 


28  DOVECOTE. 

The  girls  were  really  touched  with  what  they  saw ; 
for  there  is  no  nature  that  is  schooled  to  insensibility 
except  by  degrees,  and  Mrs.  Trevelyn  had  the  tuitior 
of  her  children's  hearts  yet  before  her.  They  had,  it  is 
true,  accomplished  much  in  the  way  of  imitation  al- 
ready ;  but  if  their  mother  intended  for  them  a 
thorough  course  of  training  in  her  own  peculiar  charac- 
teristics, she  had  yet  much  to  do. 

"  What  did  your  mother  do  for  you  when  you  cried 
in  that  way  ?  "  said  she,  sneering  again,  for  the  benefit 
of  her  daughters. 

"  I  never  cried  !  "  sobbed  the  child,  scarcely  able  to 
speak  distinctly. 

"  Ah,  that  indeed  !  Then  I  think  we'll  have  none  of 
it  here  !  You  may  go  out  of  the  room." 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  was  cut  with  the  pointed  reply  of 
Milly.  It  was  the  more  pointed,  from  the  sincerity  and 
innocence  of  manner  with  which  it  was  given. 

Milly  had  no  alternative,  therefore,  but  to  go  out  of 
the  room.  She  found  her  way  into  the  garden,  and 
wandered  off  to  its  most  remote  quarters,  till  she  finally 
reached  a  little  coppice  that  skirted  its  border.  To  this 
rustic  retreat  she  betook  herself,  sitting  down  upon  a 
rock  at  the  foot  of  a  tree. 

The  spring  was  out  in  all  its  enticing  freshness. 
From  the  boughs  that  interlaced  above  her  head  the 
tender  buds  had  long  ago  burst,  and  tiny  leaves  of  the 
most  welcome  and  delicate  green  had  started  in  all  di- 
rections, fringing  and  ruffling  the  sprays  as  no  hand  less 
skilful  than  that  of  Nature  herself  could  do  it  all.  The 
air  was  soft  and  bland,  and  lightly  stirred  the  auburn 
locks  she  had  brushed  away  from  her  forehead  with 
such  care.  There  was  quiet  and  peace  every  where 
about  her.  It  was  a  welcome  change  from  the  feverish 


NOT  ALL  GOLD  THAT  GUTTERS.          29 

feelings  that  had  so  lately  oppressed  her  in  the  house. 
She  was  glad  that  she  had  come  to  this  place. 

More  sadly  than  ever,  though,  came  back  to  her  the 
remembered  words,  and  looks,  and  tones,  and  smiles  of 
her  mother.  All  the  while  her  mind  was  contrasting 
the  character  of  her  aunt  with  that  of  her  mother ;  and 
her  heart  told  her  there  was  something  unnatural  in  the 
very  comparison.  She  could  with  difficulty  believe 
that  there  could  be  so  much  unhappiness,  on  the  part 
of  even  one,  where  there  was  likewise  such  profusion 
and  plenty. 

A  new  glimpse  of  life  broke  on  her  vision.  She  be- 
gan to  understand  the  hollowness  of  appearances,  and 
to  measure  the  true  shapes  of  realities.  For  a  mind  as 
young  and  untutored  as  hers,  there  was  newly  opened  a 
storehouse  of  reflections  that  would  be  likely  to  last  her 
through  the  whole  of  her  life.  And  all  the  time  she 
thought  of  these  things  she  grew  more  and  more  sad- 
dened, until  she  quite  wished  that  she  could  go  at  once 
where  her  mother  had  gone  before. 

In  this  state  of  feeling  she  had  continued  undisturbed 
for  a  long  time.  It  was  already  near  sunset,  and  the 
shadows  were  lengthening  on  the  grass  at  her  feet. 
The  air  was  imperceptibly  growing  chill,  and  she  should 
have  returned  to  the  house.  But  a  summons  reached 
her  before  she  had  thought  of  the  hour.  A  servant 
spied  her  in  her  sylvan  seclusion,  and  told  her  that  Mrs. 
Trevelyn  was  looking  for  her. 

Milly  rose  from  the  rock  on  which  she  had  been  sit- 
ting, and  followed  her  slowly  into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  met  her  at  the  door. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  miss  ? "  she  sharply  -in- 
quired, bestowing  on  her  a  highly  threatening  look. 

"  I  found  her  'way  off  in  them  woods  yonder !  "  an- 
3* 


30  POVECOTB. 

swered  the  ready  servant.  "  I  don't  see  how  she  ever 
found  the  way  out  there  !  " 

"  What  did  you  go  there  for  ?  "  persisted  Mrs.  Trev- 
elyn.  "  What  were  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  meekly  answered  the  child. 

"  Nothing  ?  Yes,  you  must  have  been  doing  some- 
thing !  What  was  it  ?  " 

By  this  time  Margaret  and  Ellen  had  come  to  the 
door,  and  were  watching  the  termination  of  the  matter 
with  deep  apparent  interest.  Mrs.  Trevelyn  found 
another  opportunity  for  the  advantageous  display  of  her 
cruel  tactics. 

Milly  did  not  seem  inclined  to  reply  to  Mrs.  Trev- 
elyn's  last  question,  which  was  very  unfortunate  for 
her. 

"  I  bid  you  tell  me  what  you  was  doing  !  "  spoke  she, 
still  more  sharply. 

"  Nothing,"  again  answered  Milly. 

"  Nothing  ?  What  a  fool !  Do  you  ever  think  ?  or 
don't  you  know  how  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  the  child,  looking  down  at  the 
ground. 

"  And  didn't  you  think  while  you  was  out  there  ? " 

The  girls  thought  this  the  best  place  to  titter ;  which 
they  did  to  their  mother's  thorough  satisfaction. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  was  you  thinking  of,  then  ?  " 

The  question  had  to  be  repeated. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  tell,"  said  Milly,  evasively. 

"  Don't  wish  to  tell,  eh  ?  There's  a  lady  for  you, 
now  !  But  you  shall  tell !  I  bid  you  tell  me  at  once  ! " 

Milly  hesitated. 

"  Of  course  you  were  thinking  how  much  better  a  life 
in  the  dirty  streets  was,  than  here  in  this  beautiful 


NOT    ALL    GOLD    THAT    GLITTERS.  31 

place,  wasn't  you?  Of  course  you  were  thinking  of 
your  mother,  and  comparing  her  with  me  ?  Think  of 
it,  girls  !  " 

It  was  unaccountable  by  what  fatality  Mrs.  Trev- 
elyn  had  fallen  upon  the  exact  train  of  the  child's 
thoughts  and  feelings.  Possibly  a  guilty  conscience 
might  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

Milly  told  her  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  mother, 
and  that  her  thoughts  were  upon  her  often. 

"  And  comparing  her  with  me,  I  suppose  ?  "  persisted 
her  tormentor. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  ma'am  !  Indeed,  how  could  I  ?  " 
exclaimed  the  child,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Well,  which  did  you  think  you'd  rather  live  with  ?  " 

"  My  mother  !  O,  my  mother  !  "  answered  Milly,  in  a 
passion  of  agony. 

"  Of  course  !  "  said  Mrs.  Trevelyn  ;  and  her  daughters 
looked  at  each  other,  as  if  they  fancied  the  dignity  of 
their  indulgent  parent  had  already  been  fearfully  com- 
promised. 

"  Now  go  up  to  bed !  "  ordered  the  self-condemned 
woman.  "  Go  at  once  !  You  shall  go  supperless,  too, 
for  your  impudence  !  " 

Milly  was  glad  to  escape  from  her  presence,  even  on 
so  light  terms  as  these.  She  could  not  have  eaten  her 
supper,  as  she  then  felt,  if  it  had  been  set  before  her. 
There  was  something  she  wished  satisfied  long  before 
she  thought  of  the  demands  of  her  appetite. 

She  therefore  hurried  to  her  little  room,  and  flung 
herself  upon  her  bed.  She  continued  sobbing  and  call- 
ing moaningly  on  her  mother,  till  she  had  finally  sobbed 
and  moaned  herself  to  sleep.  There  was  at  least  one 
chance  of  rest  for  a  heart  so  tossed  as  hers ;  and  that 


32  DOVECOTE. 

was  to  be  found  in  blessed  sleep.     In  dreams  she  might 
be  happy. 

Such  was  a  single  example  of  the  experience  through 
which  the  child  was  obliged  to  go  under  the  authority 
of  Mrs.  Trevelyn.  The  lady  was  reputed  to  be 
wealthy,  in  so  far  as  she  shared  the  wealth  of  her 
husband ;  but  that  must  have  been  all. 


CHAPTER  V. 


NOT  far  retired  from  the  little  village  of  Kirkwood,  a 
great  many  miles  distant  from  the  town  in  which  the 
present  fortunes  of  little  Milly  had  been  cast,  and  in 
another  state,  was  our  own  dear  homestead.  We  were 
all  brooded  there  then,  ignorant  of  trouble,  and  thought- 
less of  care. 

The  dew  is  in  my  heart,  just  as  it  used  to  he  on  the 
rich  grass  about  the  old  house,  whenever  I  call  up  again 
the  distinct  image  of  that  old  home  nest.  I  see  its  steep 
and  mossy  roofs,  its  shadowing  elms,  its  odd,  old-fash- 
ioned gables.  They  rise  like  a  picture  in  my  memory. 
The  old  light  streams  over  them,  and  they  stand  out  on 
the  canvas  anew.  The  windows  still  glow  in  the  fire- 
light, and  the  stack  of  roofs  in  the  rear  rises  to  tell  me  of 
the  divided  joys  of  autumn  evenings  and  rainy  days. 

Most  homesteads  have  some  notable  peculiarities. 
Dovecote,  as  I  know,  had  none,  unless  it  might  be  that 
never  a  spot  was  so  hallowed  by  affection  —  so  en- 
deared to  the  memory  of  its  inmates,  and  so  closely 
hedged  about  with  precious  associations.  A  plain  and 
unpretending  country  house  itself,  it  was  more  than  a 
very  palace  in  this.  It  held  a  mine  of  wealth,  from 
which,  though  we  all  so  freely  drew,  not  the  least,  aftei 
all,  seemed  to  be  taken. 

It  was  only  a  house  after  the  old  style,  with  quite  all 
the  comforts  for  which  so  many  of  those  ancient  struc 

(33) 


34  DOVECOTE. 

tures  were  distinguished.  Beneath  the  stately  elms  that 
reached  their  long  arms  protectingly  over  it,  as  if  calling 
down  upon  it  a  benison,  it  seemed  the  very  resting-place 
of  the  heart ;  the  nook  whither  many  a  weary  one's  de- 
sires may  often  have  drifted ;  the  still  corner  where  a 
worn  spirit  might  always  hope  to  find  repose. 

It  had  a  gable  roof,  and  peaked  dormer  windows, 
with  sharp  gables  jutting  out  against  the  sky.  A  huge 
chimney,  all  of  stone,  rose  above  the  whole  like  a 
massy  turret,  through  whose  stained  and  blackened  vent 
sailed  white  and  blue  smokes  to  heaven,  fragrant  with 
incense  of  the  happiness  around  the  hearthstone  below. 

There  was  a  garden  for  flowers  before  the  front  door, 
and  beyond  that  stretched  a  broad  green  lawn  of  the 
thickest  and  freshest  grass.  The  elms  gathered  them- 
selves in  groups  at  the  head  of  the  lawn,  nearest  the 
house,  and  thence  scattered  themselves  irregularly  over 
its  entire  surface,  until  they  skirted  the  winding  road 
below.  Between  two  of  these  venerable  trees  was  the 
gateway  of  the  avenue. 

In  the  rear  the  kitchen  garden  lay,  loaded,  in  the 
season,  with  all  the  various  esculents  for  which  thrifty 
home  gardens  are  apt  to  be  noted.  Time  would  fail 
me  to  tell  of  the  beans,  and  the  squashes,  and  onions, 
and  melons,  and  sweet  corn,  and  carrots,  and  turnips, 
and  beets,  or  of  the  peas,  and  parsnips,  and  lettuce,  and 
okra,  and  salsify,  or  of  asparagus,  and  tomatoes,  and 
celery,  or  so  much  as  to  mention  the  heaps  of  garden 
fruits,  cherries,  and  plums,  and  pears,  and  peaches  that 
were  yearly  gathered  in  from  this  little  half  acre. 

In  the  fall  time,  the  speckled  and  bright-eyed  beans 
came  in,  and  the  reddest  of  peppers  and  tomatoes,  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  as  if  they  must  have  been  painted 
one  by  one,  were  hung  up  about  the  store  rooms  and 


DOVECOTE.  36 

kitchen  from  well-smoked  beams,  or  strung,  like  fanciful 
Indian  trinkets,  across  the  rafters  of  the  old  garret ;  and 
the  herbs  were  hung  in  well-assorted  bunches  to  dry, 
and  the  vegetables  all  went  into  the  warm  and  capa- 
cious cellar.  It  was  a  busy  time  with  the  whole  of  us, 
that  harvest  time  in  the  garden.  It  kept  the  younger 
hands  at  work  for  days  together,  and  so,  of  course,  out 
of  the  mischief  for  which  their  fingers  itched.  And,  in 
the  spring  again,  there  was  so  much  rubbish  to  be 
cleared  away  and  burned.  Children  always  think  such 
things  awful,  and  the  prospect  fairly  is  that  they  ever 
will. 

There  was  such  a  seemingly  studied  irregularity 
about  the  old  house — it  was  absolutely  charming.  One 
room  led  you  so  unexpectedly  into  another;  and  the 
next  room  led  —  you  knew  not  where ;  and  the  pas- 
sages and  halls  were  so  intricate  and  rambling !  One 
could  play  hide-and-seek  among  them  half  his  days. 

There  were  uncounted  little  recesses,  and  doorways, 
and  projections  with  not  the  least  imaginable  design  in 
the  world,  unless  it  might  have  been  to  confuse  a  stran- 
ger, and  there  was  no  denying  that  this  plan  was  an- 
swered admirably.  For  every  one  who  shared  the  hos- 
pitalities of  Dovecote  was  in  the  regular  habit  of  saying, 
in  some  jocular  way  or  other,  "  I  can  find  my  way  round 
here  with  a  little  pains ;  but,  I  declare,  I  can't  find  it 
back  again  !  " 

I  used  to  wonder,  when  I  wandered  alone  of  a  rainy 
day  among  the  chambers  and  dim  passages  of  the  house, 
if  it  was  not  just  on  account  of  them  that  the  place  was 
called  Dovecote. 

There  were  large  square  rooms,  with  high  walls,  all 
the  way  wainscoted.  The  dining  room,  or,  as  it  was 
usually  called,  the  "  keeping  room,"  was  the  place  where 


J6  DOVECOTE. 

we  were  wont  oftenest  to  assemble.  There  the  huge, 
fierce-looking  firedogs  reflected  the  ruddy  glow  of  the 
fire  in  the  winter.  There  we  gathered  about  the  cheer- 
ful table,  spread  with  its  snowy  cloth,  and  loaded  with 
the  fat  that  the  land  annually  yielded  us.  There  we  lis- 
tened to  sweet  and  olden  stories  until  far  into  the  even- 
ing, glancing  from  the  dimming  fire  to  the  darkened 
window  panes,  and  feeling,  each  of  us,  a  child's  true 
gratefulness  that  we  had  a  home. 

Next  in  order  came  the  kitchen,  with  its  wide -throated 
fireplace,  large  enough  to  sit  in  safely  while  the  fire  was 
burning  ;  and  its  low  ceiling  hung  fantastically  with  the 
last  harvest  fruits,  and  its  bustle  and  business  in  the 
memorable  baking  and  brewing  days,  and  its  heavy  oak 
floor  fastened  down  by  huge  nails  with  brightly-scoured 
heads,  and  its  aromas,  and  steams,  and  appetizing  fumes, 
always  attracting  children  to  make  their  usual  discov- 
eries. Servants  moved  briskly  about  there,  from  fire- 
place to  table,  and  from  table  to  fireplace  again ;  and 
logs  of  immense  size  were  rolled  into  the  chimney 
throat ;  and  dancing  flames  went  roaring  up  the  chim- 
ney, crackling,  and  snapping,  and  climbing  agilely 
among  the  light  sprays  and  branches  of  the  brushwood, 
writhing  and  hi?sing,  and  laughing  with  the  strangest 
imaginable  laughter  as  they  sped  upwards,  and  filling 
all  the  apartment  of  a  trying  winter's  day  with  visions 
of  comfort,  and  plenty,  and  home.  A  kitchen,  somehow, 
awakens  the  home  feeling  sooner  than  almost  any  other 
place. 

In  the  yard,  where  the  flower  blooms  first  assured  us 
of  coming  spring,  almost  every  variety  of  home  flowers 
blushed  along  the  borders  of  the  simple  beds,  or  grouped 
themselves  fantastically  in  the  angles.  There  were 
snowdrops,  and  crocuses,  four-o'clocks,  and  larkspurs, 


DOVECOTE.  37 

lady's  slippers,  and  bachelor's  buttons,  scattered  plenti- 
fully up  and  down  the  walks  and  over  the  beds.  And 
modest  myrtles  bloomed  in  the  haunted  shade  of  a  few 
evergreens ;  while  blushing  morning  glories  —  the  fa- 
vorite flower  of  my  saintly  grandmother  —  clambered 
up  by  the  house,  as  if  to  be  seen  of  her  in  their  fresh 
beauty  when  she  first  opened  her  little  bed-room  win- 
dow in  the  early  summer  morning. 

Violets  opened  their  mild  eyes  with  the  first  warm 
breath  of  spring ;  and  asters  stood  shivering  against  the 
wall,  and  down  the  path,  till  the  late  frosts  of  autumn. 
Hyacinths,  in  their  pure  white  kirtles,  colored  like  soft- 
eyed  maidens,  the  belles  of  a  quiet  town.  Daffodils 
grew  thickly  in  all  the  strange  varieties  of  their  colors. 
And  there  was  abundance  of  carnations.  And  beds  of 
variegated  pinks  breathed  out  the  sweetest  fragrance. 
And  there  were  healthy  rose  trees,  too,  in  profusion, 
standing  all  about  the  yard,  beneath  the  windows,  at 
the  house  corner,  and  against  the  trellis  work  of  the 
deep  little  porch.  One  was  always  enchanted  with  the 
place  of  a  dewy  morning  in  summer,  when  the  sun  first 
stretched  his  long  red  fingers  over  the  eastern  heights, 
painting  the  house,  and  the  leaves,  and  the  flowers  all 
anew.  There  was  not,  surely,  such  another  place  the 
whole  country  round. 

The  clustered  barns  and  other  outbuildings  made  you 
think  of  a  little  settlement,  where  the  edge  of  the  cut- 
ting winds  was  taken  off  by  their  protecting  barriers,  and 
the  heart  became  easy  with  a  remembrance  of  the  gran- 
aries that  were  full. 

There  were  sloping  pasture  lands  on  the  west  and 

south-west,  over  which  the  silvery  haze  of  the  autumn 

days  hung  like  an  unspoken  blessing.     And  far  down 

to  the  south  the  damp  fogs  of  winter  and  early  spring 

4 


DOVECOTE. 

came  blowing  up  through  the  valley  between  the  hills, 
breathing  their  chilling  breaths  on  the  roofs  of  Dove- 
cote, and  making  the  dangling  boughs  of  the  old  elms 
drip  as  with  a  plentiful  rain. 

In  the  woods  were  to  be  found  an  abundance  of  wild 
grapes,  hanging  in  clusters  from  the  intertwisted  vines, 
and  crowning  the  top  of  some  noble  forest  tree  with  a 
wreath  of  their  purple  fruitage.  And  there  were  such 
grand  places  to  trap  the  wild  game  through  the  slill 
autumn  !  We  spent  days  together  in  the  woods  in  this 
deeply-exciting  occupation. 

There  were  little  brilliants  of  pools  standing  about  in 
the  lowlands,  beside  which  grew  the  coarse  brake,  the 
flag,  and  the  yellow  lilycup  ;  and  upon  whose  marshy 
borders  green-coated  frogs,  with  great  staring  eyes, 
whirred  dismally  all  through  the  evenings  in  summer. 
And  there  was  many  a  silver  brook,  too,  ripp^/ig  and 
brawling  down  through  the  meadows  —  now  tangling 
itself  like  a  silken  skein  in  the  snarled  growth  of  a 
clump  of  brushwood  —  now  creeping  slyly  along,  like  a 
shining  snake,  in  the  emerald  grass  —  and  now  giving 
a  leap  and  a  laugh  over  a  bed  of  pebbles  and  stones, 
and  hiding  its  head  far  under  the  turf  of  the  undermined 
embankment. 

If  there  was  a  feeling  of  freshness  upon  my  heart  in 
the  springtide,  as  I  roamed  about  the  dear  demesne  of 
Dovecote,  it  changed  to  one  of  sweet  and  unutterable 
joy  as  the  autumn  suns  began  to  throw  then:  yellow 
beams  aslant  upon  the  house,  and  garden,  and  fields. 
There  was  always  a  deeper  delight  in  these  latter  days, 
to  me,  than  in  any  other.  I  felt  as  if  my  heart  was 
more  full.  There  was  no  heat  to  the  sun ;  but  it  was 
so  genial.  It  seemed  to  open  the  sluices  of  the  heart, 
that  the  old  and  unquiet  feelings  might  all  flow  out,  and 


DOVECOTE.  39 

purer  and  healthier  feelings  set  in.  I  loved  to  linger  on 
the  sunny  side  of-  some  moss-girt  wall,  and  count  the 
yellow  peaches  still  hanging  on  the  limbs ;  or  stroll 
down  across  the  lawn,  trampling  the  golden  leaves  that 
the  old  elms  had  showered  down  at  my  feet ;  or  loiter 
about  the  sunny  nooks  of  the  sheds  and  barns,  gazing 
off  dreairily  over  the  haze-environed  hills,  and  watch- 
ing the  patient  oxen  slowly  dragging  their  loads  of  yel- 
low corn  up  through  the  cartworn  lanes. 

Autumn  seemed  to  me  the  harvest  time  of  my  heart's 
richest  and  ripest  feelings.  The  same  sweet  associa- 
tions were  sure  to  hang  about  me,  go  where  I  would  : 
into  the  spacious  garret,  through  the  chambers,  whose 
windows  were  opened  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 
where  the  slender-waisted  wasps  swarmed  in  the  sun, 
or  about  the  gardens  and  fields.  There  was  some 
magic  —  I  cannot  even  now  explain  it  —  in  the  sun- 
shine. It  stole  in  at  my  eyes,  and  so  to  my  heart,  as  I 
looked  at  the  changing  leaves  of  the  huge  elms,  or  the 
stripped  stalks  in  the  garden,  or  the  fading  and  dying 
vines  on  the  crest  of  the  garden  wall. 

The  winter  never  hung  heavily,  either.  It  was  full 
of  joys  all  its  own.  The  fires  were  kindled  again  on 
the  hearths,  and  the  hearts  of  the  household  were 
drawn  in  a  magnetic  circle  round  them.  The  sacred 
home  feeling  warmed  with  the  dancing  flames,  fusing 
all  hearts  together.  There  were  frost  palaces  for  us  on 
the  window  panes  in  the  morning,  and  deep  snow  drifts 
for  us  to  fight  our  way  through  to  school.  Frolics  of  all 
descriptions  were  to  be  had  in  the  barns,  from  the  hay- 
capped  scaffolds  to  the  dark  and  secret  mangers.  We 
had  memorable  times,  too,  in  the  grand  old  chambers, 
as  we  trooped  off  to  bed  at  night,  after  listening  to  fairy 
stories  at  the  hearth  till  our  mischievous  little  heads 


40  DOVECOTE. 

were  fairly  turned.  And  the  meetings  and  greetings  at 
the  breakfast  table,  smoking  with  its  winter  comforts, 
were  brief  moments  of  happiness  that  are  notched 
durably  on  my  jealous  memory. 

And  then,  when  spring  came  laughing  again  over  the 
eastern  heights,  and  the  soft  south  winds  drew  up 
through  the  valley,  and  the  days  began  perceptibly  to 
lengthen,  and  the  buds  to  throw  off  their  snug-fitting 
winter  coats  again,  my  heart  always  danced  with  the 
impulse  of  a  new  life,  and  I  greeted  the  new  season 
with  a  joy  I  could  never  fathom. 

So  it  was  at  Dovecote  the  year  round.  Nothing  was 
there  in  such  plenty  as  happiness.  Some  would  say  it 
was  a  homely  happiness ;  but  it  was  all  the  dearer  to 
us  for  that.  There  was  reality  in  it  all.  It  was  full  of 
truth.  There  were  no  strange  and  meaningless  con- 
ceits dragged  in,  to  accuse  it  of  poverty  or  impair  its 
charming  wholeness.  I  am  renewed,  as  my  thoughts 
drift  pleasantly  back  to  that  old  homestead ;  and  my 
lips  involuntarily  utter  after  the  poet,  in  living  over 
again  that  freshest  part  of  existence,  — 

"  Fresh  as  a  spouting  spring  upon  the  hills 
My  heart  leaped  out  to  life  ;  it  little  thought 
Of  all  the  vile  cares  that  would  rill  into  it, 
And  the  low  places  it  would  have  to  go  through  — 
The  drains,  the  crossings,  and  the  mill  work  after." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  OLD   FOLKS   AT   HOME. 

I  SEE  them  now  —  my  grandfather  and  grandmother 
—  sitting  in  the  hearth  corner,  as  they  always  used  to 
sit  there. 

My  good  grandmother  sat  next  the  chimney,  in  a 
little  high-backed  chair,  with  a  cushioned  flag  bottom, 
rocking  herself  gently  to  and  fro,  and  either  dreaming 
among  the  fire  coals,  or  looking  round  among  us  with 
moistened  eyes  and  that  inimitably  sweet  smile  playing 
about  her  mouth. 

She  wore  a  tidy  little  cap,  with  a  snowy  ruffle,  upon 
her  head ;  and  I  could  see  the  silver  hair,  sometimes, 
as  it  lay  smoothly  parted  over  her  forehead.  I  thought 
no  one  ever  wore  such  dainty  caps  as  my  grandmother. 
They  were  perfect  bijoux  of  caps  —  though  she  would 
not  herself  have  been  likely  to  know  what  kind  of  caps 
they  were.  And  over  her  neck  she  wore  a  handkerchief 
of  spotless  lawn,  or  a  pretty  little  cravat,  which  she  had 
a  way  of  tying,  in  a  jaunty-looking  bow,  just  under  her 
chin. 

While  she  sat  in  the  hearth  corner  she  almost  in- 
variably occupied  herself  with  knitting.  And  at  times 
she  grew  a  little  loquacious,  too,  as  all  grandmothers 
have  the  very  best  right  to  be ;  beginning,  often,  with 
some  charming  story  of  her  girlhood  that  drew  all  the 
young  folks  about  her  knee,  and  leaving  off  when  they 
might  happen  to  grow  weary  with  the  narration. 

4  *  (4i> 


42  ROVECOTK. 

She  helped  assort  the  fall  stores  of  herbs,  tying  them 
in  proper  bunches,  and  hiding  away  her  own  favorites, 
in  whose  sanative  virtues  she  had  more  than  ordinary 
faith,  in  some  place  of  uncommon  security.  She  gath- 
ered marigold  and  saffron  from  the  beds  she  had  her- 
self sown  and  planted  in  the  spring ;  and  while  she  tied 
them  in  bunches,  or  rolled  them  away  carefully  in  great 
brown  papers,  she  took  the  occasion  to  tell  us  how  much 
good  these  innocent  herbs  would  do,  if  sickness  should 
happen  to  threaten  us  in  the  coming  winter. 

When  the  choice  apples  were  got  in,  she  helped  pare 
them  with  the  rest,  and  then  strung  them  in  long  neck- 
laces to  dry.  Nothing,  she  said,  was  so  good  for  pies  as 
apples  well  dried ;  but  they  must  be  well  dried,  she  was 
sure  to  add  to  her  remark.  All  the  little  light  duties  of 
housewifery  she  still  prided  herself  on  being  able  to 
perform.  She  was  not,  however,  a  body  that  had  a 
holy  horror  of  what  some  people  call  "  idleness."  It  was 
no  sin,  her  practice  seemed  to  say,  for  one  to  sit  at 
times  with  folded  hands  gazing  into  the  fanciful  realms 
of  the  fire,  or  telling  olden  stories  tojthe  younger  part  of 
the  household,  or  lost  in  the  golden  memories  of  ancient 
days,  or  listening,  with  emotions  each  moment  new,  to 
the  talk  of  the  mature  ones,  or  the  riotous  babble  of  the 
children. 

Beside  her  chair  stood  the  deep  easy  chair  of  my 
grandfather.  It  was  stuffed  at  its  back  and  sides,  and 
he  rolled  it  about  at  his  pleasure  on  castors.  The  top 
of  it  reached  far  above  his  head,  and  the  three  peaks, 
a  trifle  after  Gothic  lines,  were  surmounted  with  rude 
and  simple  carvings  of  oak.  It  was  covered  with  a 
chintz  of  a  very  quaint  device,  that  seemed  made, 
I  always  thought,  for  nothing  but  my  grandfather's 
chair. 


THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME.  43 

He  often  sat  before  the  fire,  with  his  shrivelled  hands 
over  his  knees,  sometimes  looking  steadily  into  the 
blaze,  his  head  bent  a  little  forward,  and  sometimes 
turning  about  to  talk  in  a  low  tone  to  my  grandmother. 
His  hair  was  snowy,  showing  that  the  winter  of  life  had 
really  set  in  with  him.  The  eyes,  as  they  beamed  anew 
in  the  fluttering  excitement  of  conversation,  betrayed 
only  the  far-off  depths  to  which  their  lustre  had  re- 
treated ;  as  if  he  would  take  the  sights  of  the  outer  world 
as  far  back  towards  his  heart  as  possible,  and  there 
enjoy  them  in  silent  secrecy. 

They  were  so  good,  those  old  people,  and  we  all 
thought  them  so  kind,  and  indulgent,  and  free  from 
peevishness.  Nay,  some  of  the  children  went  so  far  as 
to  make  a  confidant  of  my  grandmother — a  thing,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  that  is  rarely  attempted  by  children  gen- 
erally with  their  grandmothers. 

They  had  their  little  bed  room  just  beside  the  keep- 
ing room,  that  they  might  have  no  stairs  to  climb.  Theii 
bed  always  looked  so  soft  and  downy,  and  the  spread 
was  always  so  spotless,  and  the  dimity  curtains  seemed 
so  tidy,  that,  whenever  I  used  to  get  a  glimpse  of  them 
all,  I  wished  from  my  heart  I  could  have  such  a  little 
bed  room  to  myself. 

A  miniature  stand,  with  three  fluted  legs,  and  dog's 
claws  for  feet,  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  upon 
whose  white  cover  I  always  saw  the  great  family  Bible ; 
and  when  my  grandfather  brought  it  out  and  held  it  on 
his  knees,  as  he  often  did,  tracing  the  promises  of  the 
better  life  through  the  round  glasses  of  his  silver-bowed 
spectacles,  I  could  not  help  wondering  if  I  should  ever 
live  to  be  as  old  as  he,  and  be  obliged  to  wear  specta- 
cles, and  read  only  large  letters. 

Yet  there  was  a  genuine  patriarchal  simplicity  in  the 


44  DOVECOTE. 

hearts  of  those  two  old  people  that  was  deeply  touch- 
ing. They  were  as  far  removed  as  may  be  from  the 
taint  of  insincerity  and  worldliness.  Their  lives  had 
been,  since  their  early  marriage,  like  two  limpid  brooks, 
braided  together,  and  gliding  now,  without  a  break  or  a 
ripple,  along  the  smoothest  and  stillest  of  channels.  If 
any  new  desire  possessed  one,  the  other  was  sure  to  be 
possessed  likewise.  What  one  felt  was  felt  sympathet- 
ically by  the  other.  All  they  had,  and  all  they  were, 
was  in  common  between  them. 

So  genial  and  gentle  a  picture,  placed  constantly  be- 
fore our  eyes,  and  feeding  our  young  hearts  daily  with 
the  tenderest  and  most  dutiful  of  sentiments,  might 
be  sure  to  work  upon  us  for  a  good  end.  Their  mild 
looks  were  alone  sufficient  to  quell  a  rising  rebellion. 
The  faintest  smile  from  the  mouth  of  my  grandmother 
softened  my  heart  before  I  knew  how  it  had  been  done. 
And  when  she  beckoned  me,  in  her  own  peculiar  way, 
to  come  and  lie  my  head  in  her  lap,  and  toyed  with  my 
hair  with  her  thin  hands,  and  finally  stooped  down  and 
kissed  my  cheek  with  all  her  saintly  affection,  I  was 
sure  to  feel  the  tears  starting  to  my  eyes,  and  to  find 
myself  weeping  at  last  for  very  shame. 

Their  portraits  were  hung  in  the  parlor,  and  visitors 
never  failed  to  look  at  them  with  an  interest  that  seemed 
truly  affectionate.  I  can  see  the  meek  look  of  my 
grandmother  now,  as  she  seemed  to  be  gazing  across 
the  wall  at  my  grandfather.  He  was  not  at  all  like  her, 
at  least  on  canvas.  The  portraits  must  have  been  painted 
in  then:  younger  days,  for  my  grandfather's  hair  was 
dark,  and  was  brushed  up  rather  stiffly,  and  in  a  smart 
way,  off  his  forehead.  His  cravat  was  white,  and  tied 
in  a  notable  square  bow.  A  very  small  piece  of  a  ruffle 
peeped  out  from  the  fold  of  his  waistcoat,  betraying,  so 


THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME.  45 

far  as  that  went,  all  the  propensities  of  a  gentleman  of 
the  "  old  school." 

My  grandmother  was  wont  to  call  my  grandfather 
"  Jacob,"  which  was  his  Christian  name ;  and  he  never 
addressed  her  otherwise  than  as  "  mother."  What  a 
simple  but  deep  lesson  of  affection  slept  in  those  two 
words  !  What  histories  of  joy  and  grief  did  they  not 
suggest !  What  memories  —  tender  and  blessed  mem- 
ories —  did  they  not  call  back  to  life  again ! 

In  the  wintry  days,  my  grandfather  used  to  leave  his 
place  in  the  comer  by  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  when 
the  sun  began  to  set  the  eaves  a-mnning,  and  make  short 
sallies  to  the  busy  portions  of  the  house,  or,  perhaps,  to 
the  outbuildings  and  barns.  He  walked  with  a  half- 
timid  step,  his  attenuated  limbs  shaking  beneath  him, 
and  his  hands  catching  at  such  objects  as  first  came  in 
his  way. 

He  loved  chiefly  to  busy  himself  in  the  barn,  among 
the  barrels  of  apples,  the  rows  of  pumpkins  and  winter 
squashes,  and  the  ricks  of  corn  ;  or  in  the  granary,  reck- 
oning up  in  Ms  mind  the  number  of  bushels  the  yellow 
ears  would  turn  out  when  shelled ;  or  beneath  the  shed 
that  opened  southward,  watching  the  cattle  that  stood 
grouped  in  the  faint  sun,  patiently  chewing  their  cuds 
and  awaiting  the  sprouting  of  the  new  grass  on  the  hill- 
sides and  in  the  pastures. 

He  talked  with  the  men  servants  about  the  feed,  and 
the  net  yield  of  certain  fields  that  he  had  known  from 
his  boyhood,  and  the  coming  on  of  the  young  cattle, 
whose  sprouted  horns  told  of  the  sure  increase  in  their 
value.  He  occasionally  hummed  snatches  of  psalm 
tunes,  stepping  about  briskly  the  while,  and  running  his 
eyes  over  every  nook  and  angle  of  the  old  bam,  as  if 
there  should  be  a  something  there  which  it  was  not  in 
his  power  to  find. 


46  DOVECOTE. 

If  there  were  rats,  or  weevil,  or  other  infesting  ver- 
min to  be  got  rid  of  about  the  granaries,  he  was  the  one 
who  took  it  upon  himself  to  see  that  it  was  thoroughly 
done.  All  the  traps  he  made  and  set  himself;  and  he 
seemed  quite  as  regular  in  watching  them  as  a  boy  in 
tending  his  partridge  snares  in  the  woods.  He  tinkered 
by  the  hour  at  the  work  bench  in  the  little  carpentry 
room,  making  frail  trellises  for  "  mother's  "  choice  vines 
to  climb  by  in  the  spring,  and  mending  drawers,  and 
bales,  and  boxes,  till  it  seemed  that  there  could  be  no 
more  to  mend. 

In  the  afternoons,  when  we  came  home  from  school, 
in  winter,  the  old  folks  were  always  sitting  beside  each 
other  again.  Perhaps  my  grandfather  was  reading  to 
"  mother  "  from  some  old  pamphlet  or  book  of  sermons, 
while  she  sat  quietly  knitting  in  the  corner,  her  own 
kind  heart  knit  already  a  great  way  into  his. 

He  read  often  to  her  in  the  large  Bible ;  and  when  he 
»,ame  upon  some  favorite  passage  that  had  been  en- 
deared to  them  both  by  the  familiarity  of  years,  he 
paused  for  a  moment  in  his  reading,  while  they  both 
seemed  to  feed  their  earnest  souls  together  on  the 
precious  consolations  it  offered  them. 

And  when  the  table  was  cleared  in  the  evening,  and 
a  new  supply  of  cleft  ash  or  hickory  was  brought  in  and 
laid  across  the  firedogs,  and  the  flames  began  to  crackle 
and  to  glow,  spouting  out  their  pale  and  slender  columns 
towards  us  all,  there  sat  the  old  folks  in  the  same  cor- 
ner still.  My  mother  —  bless  her  tenderest  of  hearts  ! 
—  sat  in  the  corner  opposite  my  grandmother,  and  my 
father  managed  somehow  to  lose  himself  in  the  nest  of 
the  younker  folk. 

The  fire  burned  sometimes  with  unusual  brilliancy, 
lighting  up  the  whole  of  our  circle.  At  such  times  I 


THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME.  47 

used  to  gaze  in  mute  wonder  at  the  shining  forehead  of 
my  grandfather,  and  at  his  snowy  locks  and  dimming 
eyes  ;  and  I  asked  myself  if  the  good  old  man  must  not 
be  perfectly  wretched  in  knowing  that  he  could  live  so 
few  years  longer,  at  the  most.  It  seemed  strange  to 
me,  then,  to  see  those  white-headed  people  thus  sitting 
at  their  ease  in  the  corner,  ready,  I  thought,  for  the  har- 
vest, and  waiting,  perhaps,  to  be  gathered  in. 

I  have  no  room  for  such  childish  wonders  now. 

As  if  they  were  not  ready  and  willing  to  depart,  say- 
ing, with  the  patriarch  of  old,  "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou 
thy  servant  depart  in  peace  "  !  As  if  that  silver  that 
lay  on  the  locks  were  not  the  blossoming  that  promised 
a  ripe  and  ready  harvest  in  heaven  ! 

Always,  before  we  went  off  to  bed,  —  to  lie  and 
listen  to  the  howling  winds  all  night  blowing  over  fields 
of  frozen  snows,  and  perchance  to  dream  of  the  soaking 
and  softening  spring  rains  that  would  cause  the  buried 
seeds  to  burst  again  into  beauty  from  the  warm  mould, 
—  we  received  the  old  folks'  blessed  "  Good  night,"  and 
felt  ourselves  all  the  better  that  we  had  deserved  it. 

We  left  them  in  the  corner  at  night.  We  welcomed 
them  there  in  the  morning.  They  belonged  to  that 
hearth.  They  were  a  part  of  the  whole  life  of  my 
heart.  It  had  not  then  been  complete  if  the  chair  of 
either  had  been  standing  vacant  there. 

They  grew  deeply  into  my  heart,  till  they  became  a 
part  of  it  themselves. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

FEARFUL  CHANGES. 

MR.  TREVELYN  came  into  the  parlor  of  his  mansion 
at  Byeboro',  one  day,  evidently  in  great  excitement. 
Yet  he  made  a  strong  effort  to  control  himself,  as  many 
men  in  like  circumstances  are  outwardly  apt  to  do.  It 
was  a  calmness,  however,  that  was  too  forced  to  be 
without  peculiar  meaning. 

He  had  just  arrived  home  from  the  post  office  in  the 
village,  where  a  letter  had  been  put  into  his  hands 
that  was  the  cause  of  all  this  sudden  reversion  of 
feeling. ' 

Entering  the  parlor,  he  found  his  wife  there  with  the 
elder  daughter,  Margaret.  Mrs.  Trevelyn  did  not  look 
up  to  exchange  glances  of  recognition*  with  him,  but 
went  on  with  the  piece  of  muslin  on  which  she  was  at 
work.  He  accosted  her  first. 

"  Wife,"  said  he,  "  you  must  change  all  your  plans 
and  purposes.  I  have  just  received  news  of  an  over- 
whelming nature.  It  has  just  reached  me  by  the  mail. 
You  had  better  prepare  your  mind  for  the  worst  at 
once." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trev- 
elyn, dropping  her  work  in  her  lap,  and  gazing  now  with 
deep  astonishment  into  the  face  of  her  husband. 

She  saw  the  state  of  his  feelings,  then,  at  a  glance. 

"  What  has  happened,  Mr.  Trevelyn  ? "  she  re- 
peated. 

(48) 


FEARFUL     CHANGES.  49 

He  tried  to  be  calm,  but  it  cost  him  plainly  a  terrible 
effort. 

"  This  letter,"  said  he,  producing  the  same  one  he 
had  received,  "  bears  the  whole  intelligence.  It  tells 
me  that  I  am  a  ruined  man." 

"  Mr.  Trevelyn  !  "  shrieked  the  wife,  holding  up  both 
her  hands.  "  What  do  you  mean,  my  husband  ?  What 
can  you  mean  ?  W/to  has  ruined  you  ?  What  has 
ruined  you  ? " 

"  Try  to  compose  yourself;  it  is  a  trying  matter,  but 
we  need  not  make  it  worse  than  it  is.  I  told  you  that 
I  am  mined.  I  am  ;  and  every  thing  goes  by  the  board 
with  me.  Mr.  Mansfield  —  one  of  the  house  in  whose 
hands  I  have  left  the  whole  of  my  property  —  writes 
me  that  they  are  themselves  sunk,  and  must  carry  me 
and  all  I  have  with  them. 

"  My  husband !  my  husband ! "  shrieked  the  wife, 
wringing  her  hands  and  expressing  every  variety  of 
agonizing  look  upon  her  countenance,  "  are  you  ruined  ? 
Must  we  be  poor  ?  Must  we  come  to  want  ?  O,  tell 
me  if  what  you  say  is  true  !  Tell  me  if  my  poor  chil- 
dren must  become  beggars !  I  cannot  bear  it ;  no,  it 
will  break  my  heart  to  hear  that  it  must  be  so  !  Tell 
me,  Mr.  Trevelyn,  if  we  must  come  to  want  ?  " 

"  We  are  not  possessed  of  a  dollar  in  the  world.  All' 
has  gone  —  every  cent.  I  am  a  poor  man  —  as  poor  as 
I  ever  was  in  my  life.  Worse  —  worse  !  I  am  in  debt 
beyond  all  that  I  was  ever  worth  !  " 

"  O  my  husband !  Did  I  ever  —  did  I  ever  expect  to 
live  to  see  this  ?  O  mercy  !  mercy .' " 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,"  interposed  her  daughter  Mar- 
garet, who  had  sat  an  unwilling  spectator  to  this  scene 
of  distress,  "  I  beg  you  won't  feel  so  bad  just  for  papa's 
5 


50  DOVECOTB. 

being  poor  !  What  if  we  are  poor  ?  We  may  be  hap- 
py, mayn't  we,  mother  ?  " 

The  father  shook  his  head.  The  trial  was,  in  reality, 
harder  for  him  than  for  his  wife  to  bear.  He  kept  his 
feelings  back ;  and  thus,  dammed  up  about  his  heart, 
they  became  turbulent  and  fearfully  troublesome. 

"  But  you  do  not  yet  know  what  it  is  to  be  poor,  Mar- 
garet," returned  her  mother,  though  without  looking  at 
her  particularly.  "  It  is  to  be  without  friends ;  to  bo 
unnoticed  as  long  as  you  live ;  to  be  laughed  at,  and 
sneered  at,  and  talked  familiarly  about  by  all  the  coarse, 
vulgar  creatures  that  live.  We  don't  know  yet  what 
we  are  to  suffer.  And  all  this  to  come  so  sudden  upon 
me  !  O,  I  shall  die  !  I  shall  die  !  My  heart  will  break 
if  this  is  true.  I  cannot  live  to  see  my  poor  children 
want." 

"  I  feel  this  change  as  deeply  as  you  can,"  said  her 
husband.  "  Something  has  troubled  me  for  a  long  time 
past.  It  must  have  been  a  secret  fear  of  this  very 
thing.  I  wonder  if  I  can  get  through  it." 

A  new  light  danced  across  his  wife's  brain. 

"  O  Mr.  Trevelyn,"  said  she,  seizing  his  arm  and 
looking  with  her  passionate  eyes  close  into  his,  "  do  try 
to  keep  off  this  blow  !  Do  go  to  town  at  once,  and  see 
if  there's  nothing  that  can  be  done  —  not  even  one 
single  thing  —  to  keep  back  this  danger  !  There  may 
be  hope  yet.  It  may  not  be  too  late,  Mr.  Trevelyn ; 
why  won't  you  see  what  chance  there  is  left  for  us  ? 
Don't  let  us  fall  so  low,  as  we  must  if  this  intelligence 
you  have  got  is  true  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  that,"  said  he,  emphatically. 

"  No  hope,  did  you  say  ?  no  chance  open  for  us  yet  ? 
no  room  for  us  to  save  our  poor,  dear  children  ? " 


FEARFUL     CHANGES.  51 

"  I  see  none.  We  are  ruined.  We  are  poor  as  we 
ever  were." 

"  Mercy  !  mercy ! "  again  cried  the  woman ;  and 
again  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  again  threw  her  eyes 
up  to  the  ceiling. 

"  You  should  try  to  be  more  collected,"  he  said  to 
her.  "  It  is  not  the  part  of  a  true  woman,  and  a  mother, 
to  take  on  in  this  way  for  the  loss  of  property.  It's 
what  I've  always  said,  and  said  to  one  person  as  well 
as  another :  you  can't  tell  to-day  that  you  will  be  rich 
to-morrow.  Riches  have  wings.  The  Bible  tells  us 
that;  and  I  believe  it  now,  if  I  never  was  able  to 
before." 

"  But  there  may  be  some  means  for  you  to  save  a 
part  of  your  money  !  "  suggested  his  wife,  at  the  height 
of  hysterical  symptoms.  "  Only  a  part  of  it,  Mr.  Trev- 
elyn  !  That  would  be  better  than  to  be  wholly  without 
—  to  be  poor  !  O,  how  can  I  bear  to  think  of  such  a 
thing  ?  How  can  I  bear  to  think  of  such  a  dreadful 
change  for  us  all  ?  " 

"  I'll  help  you,  mother,  when  we  have  to  work,"  he- 
roically offered  Margaret. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  child !  It's  all  the  help  I  can 
give  that  you  will  want  yourself !  You  can  do  nothing. 
You  are  entirely  helpless.  All  that  I  must  live  now  to 
see  will  be  my  children  wanting  for  bread  and  clothes. 
And  how  these  shallow  upstarts  will  all  look  down  on 
us  then,  and  tell  us  that  they  knew  all  the  time  we 
must  come  down ;  and  say  they're  glad  of  it,  and  it  was 
good  enough  for  us,  and  all  that !  Mr.  Trevelyn,  will 
you  not  go  at  once  to  town,  and  see  if  there  is  no  way 
of  escape  ?  See  if  you  can't  sacrifice  some  one  else  in 
your  place !  There  is  hope  —  I  know  there  is.  I 
shan't  be  at  rest  till  I  know  better  than  I  do  now  that 
all  our  property  is  gone." 


02  DOVECOTE. 

"  It's  a  dreadful  reality,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  T.,  pacing 
the  floor  excitedly ;  "  it  will  have  to  be  understood  a 
little  at  a  time.  You  cannot  take  the  whole  of  such  a 
truth  in  at  once ! "  And  forthwith  he  fell  to  mut- 
tering over  something  that  his  wife  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"  Ruin !  ruin  !  "  said  he  at  last,  in  a  low  tone  ;  and  he 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  carpet  with  a  riveted  gaze.  "  I  can  say 
it,  I  can  spell  it,  I  can  make  others  understand  it ;  but  I 
cannot  understand  it  myself!  It's  a  simple  word,  a  very 
simple  word ;  but  it's  a  dreadful  fact.  How  shall  I  get 
round  it  ? " 

And  straightway  he  fell  to  walking  briskly  across  the 
floor  again. 

"  There  is  a  way,  Mr.  Trevelyn !  There  must  be  a 
way  !  And  you  must  go  at  once  and  find  it  out.  I  will 
go  with  you,  if  you  wish.  I  will  do  any  thing.  If 
there's  any  figuring  to  be  done  —  if  letters  are  to  be 
written  —  if  old  accounts  are  to  be  looked  into  —  O,  let 
me  do  it !  I  will  save  you,  if  I  can.  There  may  be 
some  mistake  in  adding  up  figures,  somewhere.  The 
firm  may  have  made  a  gross  miscalculation  somewhere. 
Let  me  find  it  out  for  you.  I  know  I  can  do  it.  Let 
me  go  with  you,  and  be  satisfied." 

"  There  must  be  fraud ! "  muttered  Mr.  Trevelyn, 
again  pausing  and  studying  the  figure  of  the  carpet. 
"  Fraud  has  been  practised  before  ;  why  not  here  ?  I 
confess  I  have  been  much  too  confiding  with  these  men. 
I  always  had  the  highest  trust  in  them.  Perhaps  it  has 
been  abused  at  last,  and  I  am  made  the  victim." 

The  thought,  sudden  as  it  was,  fixed  him  with  a  new 
purpose.  He  stamped  his  foot  heavily  upon  the  floor, 
and  threw  his  eyes  with  a  wild  look  about  the  room,  as 


FEARFUL     CHANGES.  53 

if  he  were  trying  properly  to  collect  his  shattered  and 
wrecked  reflections. 

"  Fraud,  Mr.  Trevelyn,  did  you  say  ? "  asked  his  wife, 
who  had  caught  the  word. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  walked  with  hasty  strides  out 
of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn,  thereupon,  gave  way  to  a  violent  fit 
)f  weeping.  She  bent  her  head  far  down  in  her  lap, 
Durying  her  face  in  the  muslin  kerchief  at  which  she 
was  at  work  when  her  husband  came  in.  Margaret, 
who,  in  proportion  as  her  mother  lost  her  courage, 
seemed  to  increase  her  own,  attempted  to  offer  her  syl- 
lables of  her  childish  condolence ;  but  it  must  have 
been  that  they  only  added  to  the  fuel  that  already  pro- 
duced the  flame. 

All  night  long  did  Mr.  Trevelyn  sit  up,  ransacking 
and  poring  over  piles  of  musty  papers,  and  jotting  down 
innumerable  figures  on  innumerable  slips  of  paper, — 
now  holding  his  pen  nervously  in  his  mouth,  and  now 
sticking  it  hurriedly  behind  his  ear,  —  and  adding,  sub- 
tracting, and  multiplying,  until  it  seemed  as  if  every 
figure  must  certainly  have  been  worked  in  somewhere  ; 
muttering  to  himself,  pacing  the  room,  and  alternately 
rousing  himself  to  the  highest  pitch  of  fear,  or  compos- 
ing his  feelings  to  the  lowest  limit  within  his  reach. 
When  the  morning  dawned,  it  still  found  him  at  his 
secretary.  His  hair  was  much  tumbled  and  his  lips 
parched.  His  eyes  looked  haggard  and  bloodshot,  and 
in  no  respect  was  Mr.  Trevelyn  the  man  he  usually 
was. 

His  wife   again  ventured  to  open  the  door  of  the 

room.     He  had  done  little  else,  he  thought,  but  send 

her  away  through  the  night.     She  entered  to  urge  him 

to  taste  some  coffee  she  had  prepared  for  him  with  her 

5* 


54  DOVECOTE. 

own  hands.  He  took  it  from  her,  but  his  lip  quivered. 
Possibly  he  thought  of  the  changed  condition  that  was 
just  upon  them,  and  of  the  few  acts  of  kindness  she 
would  hereafter  feel  disposed  to  render  him  in  her 
distress. 

At  first  sipping  it,  and  then  drinking  all  off  at  a 
draught,  he  stood  on  his  feet.  There  was  a  peculiarity 
in  his  manner,  in  his  eye,  in  his  whole  look,  that  be- 
trayed more  than  mere  nervousness.  Yet  his  wife 
might  have  observed  none  of  it. 

His  travelling  trunk  was  got  ready,  and  he  prepared 
himself —  though  not  with  his  usual  care  —  to  return  to 
town  by  the  early  stage.  In  an  hour  it  was  before  the 
gate.  He  had  bidden  his  wife  a  half-sullen  "  Good 
by ; "  his  trunk  was  strapped  on  behind  the  coach ; 
he  had  taken  his  seat ;  and  away  he  went  down  the 
road,  to  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  speedily  towards 
the  metropolis. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  arrived 
there.  Without  taking  refreshment,  he  hurried  to  his 
hotel,  and  thence  to  the  counting  room  of  the  house 
with  whose  fortunes  he  had  fallen. 

No  one  was  about  the  building  but  Mr.  Mansfield. 
Business  was  through,  for  they  had  stopped.  Mr. 
Mansfield  was  sitting  on  a  high  stool,  with  his  back 
resting  against  a  desk,  engaged  in  whittling  and  think- 
ing. As  he  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Trevelyn  entering  the 
door,  an  appearance  of  embarrassment  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  flush  in  his  face,  and  he  started  uncon- 
sciously. 

Mr.  Trevelyn  saluted  him,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eye.  He  was  cool  in  his  civilities,  and  asked  Mr.  T.  to 
be  seated.  There  was  no  need  of  travelling  about  the 
matter  at  all ;  they  both  understood  it  thoroughly. 


TEARFUL    CHANGES.  55 

And  they  went  straight  to  the  mark  with  their  first 
words. 

After  the  exchange  of  a  few  general  remarks,  Mr 
Trevelyn  signified  that  he  should  be  in  his  room  at 
his  hotel  all  through  the  evening,  and  invited  him  to 
bring  his  books  along  with  him ;  and  with  a  promise 
from  the  merchant  to  be  there  seasonably,  he  left  him 
and  walked  out  into  the  street. 

How  different  his  thoughts  from  those  heretofore 
when  he  had  walked  those  same  streets !  What  a 
loss  of  energy  could  he  feel  now,  throughout  his  whole 
mental  and  physical  constitution  !  How  depressed  were 
his  spirits,  as  he  had  never  thought  to  live  to  feel ! 

Later  somewhat  than  he  had  engaged,  Mr.  Mansfield 
went  to  his  room.  He  entered,  and  Mr.  Trevelyn  rose 
to  seat  him  near  the  table,  locking  the  door  at  the  same 
time.  The  merchant's  quick  ear  caught  the  snapping 
sound  of  the  lock,  and  his  face  became  livid  with  fear, 
though  fear  of  what  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  him 
to  say. 

It  was  quite  an  hour  that  they  continued  thus  clos- 
eted. No  loud  voices  were  heard  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
door,  and  nothing  like  symptoms  of  anger  or  passion 
were  discoverable.  That  quarter  of  the  building  was  as 
free  from  disturbance,  or  so  much  as  the  breath  of  dis- 
turbance, as  any  other. 

All  at  once  a  loud  and  ringing  report  fell  upon  the 
ear,  reverberating  along  the  alleys  and  passages,  and 
bringing  every  one  to  his  or  her  door  in  great  conster- 
nation. What  could  it  mean  ?  where  was  it  ?  was  the 
universal  cry.  Assistance  was  summoned  from  the  offi- 
cers of  the  hotel,  who  came  in  confusion  from  below, 
knocking  at  every  door  that  was  locked  to  find  the 
locality  where  the  alarm  originated.  Waiters  and  ser- 


56  BOVECOTK. 

vants  were  at  their  heels,  and  boarders  crowded  on 
close  after  them. 

They  finally  reached  the  door  of  Mr.  Trevelyn's  room, 
and  knocked  there.  No  answer.  There  was  a  strong 
and  stifling  smell  of  powder.  They  knocked  again. 
No  answer  yet.  They  listened.  A  low  moan  was  just 
audible  from  within.  Putting  their  shoulders  stoutly 
against  the  door,  they  forced  it,  and  went  tumbling  into 
the  room.  Eveiy  one  who  saw  that  ghastly  sight  fell 
backward  with  horror.  There  lay  two  men,  one  of 
them  stone  dead,  the  other  just  gasping  in  the  last  ago- 
aies  of  his  life.  He  still  clutched  a  pistol  tightly  in  his 
Aand,  and  gnashed  his  teeth  fearfully,  rolling  up  his 
eyes  to  the  wall. 

One  of  the  men,  the  dead  man,  was  Mr.  Mansfield ; 
the  other  was  Mr.  Trevelyn.  He  had  taken  this  method 
of  settling  with  one  by  whom  he  was  thoroughly  con- 
vinced he  had  been  robbed  and  ruined. 

It  would  he  needless  to  try  to  picture,  except  in  im- 
agination, the  grief  that  broke  its  huge  and  darkened 
cloud  over  the  bereft  family  of  the  murderer  and  sui- 
cide. It  cannot  be  conveyed,  though  one  held  a  pen 
that  ran  swifter  than  the  blood  that  pulses  from  his 
quick-beating  heart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  POORHOUSE. 

THERE  are  worse  holes  made  in  families  than  those 
made  by  digging  up  the  treasure.  There  are  sorer  tri- 
als than  those  that  breed  from  mere  poverty,  or  even 
from  absolute  want. 

When  he  who  has  hitherto  stood  the  brant  of  the 
conflict  with  the  world,  who  has  always  interposed  be- 
tween his  little  group  and  the  rough  realities  of  outer 
life  the  shield  of  his  protection,  who  has  watched  the 
changing  of  every  wind  for  them,  and  the  coming  of 
every  storm,  —  when  this  one  is  struck  down,  and  the 
family  front  is  utterly  gone,  nothing  between  helpless- 
ness and  heartlessness  to  keep  back  the  latter  from  its 
cruel  inroads,  then  it  is  that  the  soul  of  the  bereft  mate, 
yearning  for  her  unprotected  younglings,  may  take  up 
its  bitterest  lamentations,  and  cry  aloud  in  the  greatness 
of  its  grief. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  was  a  widow,  and  made  a  widow  by 
what  terrible  means !  She  sat  and  gazed  at  the  chil- 
dren, and  wondered  where  the  strength  was  to  come 
from  that  should  bear  them  safely  through  the  world  on 
its  shoulders.  Her  heart  misgave  her  utterly.  She 
neither  had  courage  herself,  nor  seemed  to  know  where 
to  go  for  strength.  She  would  sit  and  pat  the  heads  of 
the  children  by  the  half  hour,  talking  sometimes  to  her- 
self and  sometimes  to  them  about  their  new  circum- 

(57) 


58  DOVECOTE. 

stances,  and  add  exclamation  to  exclamation  about  their 
yet  hidden  future. 

All  this  was  radically  bad,  not  less  for  Mrs.  Trevelyn 
herself  than  for  her  children.  The  naturally  healthy 
purposes  that  were  ready  to  develop  themselves  in 
Margaret  became  thus  weakened  with  her  example, 
till  they  were  altogether  unnoticeable.  What  Margaret 
felt,  of  course  her  younger  sister  would  sympathetically 
feel ;  and  both  were  now  little  better  than  helpless,  and 
much  of  this  through  the  vacillation  and  weakness  of 
their  mother.  Other  mothers  it  would  not  have  been 
difficult  to  find,  who  bore  quite  as  much  love  for  their 
children  as  she,  and  a  plenty  of  them,  who,  in  such  a 
struggle  as  was  then  at  hand,  would  have  made  them 
into  little  heroines,  if  only  by  the  secret  power  of  then- 
own  example. 

But  Mrs.  Trevelyn  knew  not  what  to  do.  She  had 
formed  no  plan,  because  her  mind  was  incapable  of  the 
necessary  effort.  She  was  governed  by  a  blind  resolu- 
tion to  trust  to  chance,  let  it  turn  with  her  whichever 
way  it  would.  Her  nature  was  altogether  passive.  It 
had  scarce  activity  and  demonstrativeness  enough  in  it 
to  keep  her  life  in  a  healthy  condition. 

On  a  single  point,  however,  her  mind  was  quite  set- 
tled. If  she  failed  on  all  others,  she  certainly  meant 
not  to  fail  here.  Her  old  prejudice  had  succeeded  in 
working  its  active  way  even  through  the  depth  of  her 
grief.  She  was  determined  to  give  Milly  into  other 
hands,  and  at  once.  The  child  was  a  beggar,  she  said ; 
and  what  were  they  but  beggars  ?  She  could  not  un- 
dertake to  support  her,  or  even  to  care  for  her.  Of  that, 
she  had  quite  enough  in  prospect,  in  having  only  her 
own  children  at  her  side.  She  would  put  her  off  imme- 
diately. 


THE    POORHOUSE.  69 

The  appearance  of  things  about  the  mansion  of  the 
late  Mr.  Trevelyn  was  changing  fast.  Already  had  all 
the  servants  taken  their  leave  but  a  single  one,  and  she 
was  of  a  character  much  above  the  lot  into  which  she 
had  fallen.  As  long  as  she  could  be  of  service  to  a 
woman  in  such  deep  affliction  as  Mrs.  Trevelyn,  she 
declared  that  she  would  stand  faithfully  by  her.  Might 
not  that  lady  herself  have  taken  a  bit  of  a  lesson  from 
so  excellent  an  example,  and  offered  to  the  orphan 
Milly  what  was  so  generously  bestowed  upon  herself? 

The  house  was  desolate,  and  it  seemed  really  de- 
serted. There  was  no  noise  either  of  feet  or  voices 
about  the  halls,  or  in  the  chambers,  or  out  on  the  spa- 
cious veranda.  The  yard  was  no  exception  to  the 
rest  of  the  picture.  The  plants  stood  as  they  were  last 
left,  needing  the  thrifty  attention  of  the  absent  gar- 
dener. Grass  rooted  itself  along  the  gravel  walks,  and 
weeds  grew  thickly  over  the  beds,  among  the  choice 
flowers. 

A  cloud  had  settled  over  all  the  place,  outside  no  less 
than  within.  What  the  heart  of  the  widow  realized, 
the  appearance  of  the  building  and  the  grounds  made 
almost  as  palpable  a  reality  to  the  minds  of  passers. 
The  country  people  round  about  were  at  best  but  an 
honest,  homespun  class,  scarce  ever  straying  twenty 
miles  from  their  farms,  and  always  schooled  to  regard 
the  mansion  of  Mr.  Trevelyn  with  a  wonder  that  bor- 
dered somewhere  near  awe.  To  all  of  them  this  un- 
foreseen change  gave  a  heavy  blow,  for  it  threw  their 
minds  off  the  accustomed  way  of  thinking.  Some  of 
them  had  deeper  natures,  and  could  be  moved  to  down- 
right sympathy  for  the  widow.  Others  thought  it  was 
a  wonderful  affair ;  and  others  still  shook  their  heads, 
and  said  that  the  hand  of  Providence  was  in  it  all. 


60  DOVECOTE. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  talked  to  her  daughters  about  Milly 
with  as  much  freedom  as  she  would  have  done  to 
mature  persons. 

"  We  are  to  get  our  own  living,  I  suppose,"  said  she, 
"  and  I'm  sure  that  will  be  quite  enough  for  us.  She 
can't  expect  us  to  provide  for  her  any  longer ;  and  if 
she  does,  I  don't  know  that  we  shall  feel  obligated  to. 
She's  no  relation  of  mine,  nor  of  yours ;  and  if  she  wants 
to  find  her  relations  now,  she  must  go  elsewhere." 

"  Where  do  you  think  she  will  go,  mother  ?  "  ques- 
tioned Margaret.  "  Back  to  the  city  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  knew,  I'm  sure.  It's  nothing  to  me  where 
she  goes,  if  I  do  but  get  her  off  my  hands.  She 
shouldn't  have  come  here  in  the  first  place." 

"  But  that  woman  brought  her,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  and  I  wish  now  that  woman  would  come  and 
take  her  away  again.  If  I  knew  where  she  lived,  I'd 
send  her  to  her." 

"  She's  so  small  she  can't  help  us  any,"  said  Mar- 
garet. 

"  And  such  a  temper,  too,"  added  Ellen,  spitefully. 

"  I  don't  want  any  thing  more  to  do  with  her,"  repeat- 
ed Mrs.  Trevelyn.  "  She  came  here  without  my  pleas- 
ure being  asked,  and  she  shall  go  away  in  the  same 
manner." 

"  But,  mother,  where  will  you  send  her  ?  She  hasn't 
any  friends." 

"  Hasn't  any  friends  ?  As  many  as  we  have  got,  I 
guess  ;  and  what  is  it  to  me  if  she  hasn't  ?  It's  nothing 
that  /  can  help.  She  must  find  friends ;  must  make 
them." 

"  I  never  liked  her,"  said  Ellen,  lisping. 

"  Why  slvndd  you,  my  dear  ? "  asked  her  mother. 
"  What  is  she  to  you  ?  I  hope  my  daughters  will  never 


THE    POORHOUSE.  61 

think  of  associating  with  people  that  come  of  such  low 
families." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  servant  opened  the  door  and 
ushered  in  an  honest-looking  man,  ruddy  faced  and 
rough  handed,  who  had  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Trevelyn  her- 
self on  private  business.  She  stared  very  rudely,  for  one 
who  was  so  certain  she  was  a  lady,  at  him,  and  neg- 
lected, even,  to  ask  him  to  be  seated.  This  sort  of 
ci  vility,  however,  happened  to  be  something  he  did  not 
much  trouble  himself  about ;  so  he  put  his  hat  upon 
the  floor,  and  sat  down  in  an  arm  chair  near  the 
window. 

"  I've  come  to  see  you,  Miss  Trevelyn,"  began  he, 
"  about  the  taxes.  They  haven't  been  paid,  you  know.' 

"  Taxes  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  T.  "  I'm  sure  /  don't 
know  any  thing  about  them  !  Why  should  I  ?  What 
am  /  expected  to  know  of  them  ?  " 

"  Wai,  you  see,"  pursued  the  man,  "  that  I'm  one  of 
the  town  authority,  and  it's  a  part  of  my  duty  to  look 
after  these  things.  When  your  husband  was  living,  of 
course  you  warn't  expected  to  know  what  these  things 
are  for.  But  it's  different  now,  you  see.  I've  come 
over  to  see  you,  and  to  ask  you  what  you  thought  you 
could  do." 

"  Do  ?  I  can  do  nothing  !  I  haven't  money  to  pay 
any  thing  with,  much  less  my  taxes.  You  must  get 
them  somewhere  else.  You  must  take  them  out  of  the 
house,  or  the  garden,  or  somewhere  else  ;  /  don't  know 
any  tiling  about  them." 

"  It's  only  the  taxes  that  are  behindhand,  Miss  Trev- 
elyn. Of  course,  I  don't  expect  you  to  pay  tax  on  prop- 
erty that  ain't  yours.  This  place  ain't  yours,  you 
know." 

She  felt  then  that  she  knew  it,  with  the  coarse  words 
6 


of  that  every-day  man  of  business  rasping  her  tender  do- 
mestic feelings,  as  thoroughly  as  she  ever  should.  But 
she  offered  no  reply.  A  glance  at  the  intruder,  and  a 
gaze  about  the  room,  were  enough  to  fill  her  heart  with 
the  bitterest  of  reflections. 

"  Wai,  then,  it's  no  matter,  jest  now,"  said  he,  think- 
ing to  leave,  and  taking  up  his  hat  from  the  floor ;  "  I 
see  you  don't  understand  these  tilings  I'll  call  some 
other  time  and  explain  'em.  We'll  set  down  and  talk 
'em  all  over,  Miss  Trevelyn.  Don't  give  yourself  no 
further  uneasiness  about  it  till  then.  I  hain't  no  doubt 
it'll  all  come  out  smooth  as  a  whistle  !  —  yes,  jest  as 
smooth  as  a  whistle  ! " 

As  he  was  in  the  complacent  act  of  repeating  the  lat- 
ter portion  of  this  sentence,  he  swung  his  beaver 
leisurely  from  one  side  to  the  other  by  the  edge  of  the 
brim,  and  run  his  eyes  curiously  all  over  the  room,  tak- 
ing into  his  comprehensive  view  every  thing  there  was, 
from  the  paper  border  near  the  ceiling  to  the  clawfoot 
of  the  pan  that  caught  the  drippings  and  clinker  of  the 
grate. 

A  new  thought  suddenly  came  to  Mrs.  Trevelyn. 

"  You  are  one  of  the  town  authority,  you  say  ? "  she 
inquired,  with  a  little  show  of  respectfulness. 

"  Yes,  marm,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  the  fust  select- 
man." 

And  he  swung  his  hat  more  briskly  on  the  tip  of  his 
finger. 

"  Then  you  can  oblige  me,  if  you  will." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to,  I'm  sure,  in  the  situation  you  re 
in  now,"  returned  he. 

"  I  have  a  little  girl  living  here  whom  I  wish  to  send 
away.  She  must  go  somewhere,  and  immediately  for 
/can't  take  care  of  her  any  longer.  She  has  no  friends, 


THE    POORHOUSE.  63 

and  no  relations,  that  I  ever  heard  of,  and  there's  noth- 
ing left  for  her  but  to  go  on  the  town." 

The  "  fust  selectman "  of  Byeboro'  merely  replied 
with  a  more  vigorous  swing  of  his  hat  and  a  low  "  Hum ! 
yes ! " 

"  I  thought  that  the  sooner  I  got  her  off,  the  better," 
added 'Mrs.  Trevelyn. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  member  of  the  town  council. 

"  Why  cannot  she  be  taken  away  at  once,  then  ?  " 

"  To-day,  marm,  if  you  like,"  said  he. 

"  Margaret,"  said  Mrs.  T.,  "  won't  you  call  her  in, 
then  ?  She's  somewhere  out  the  door.  Tell  her  I  want 
to  see  her." 

Margaret  ran  to  do  the  errand  of  her  mother,  and  im- 
mediately returned  again.  It  was  not  over  a  minute  or 
two  afterwards  that  Milly  herself  entered  the  room.  As 
soon  as  she  saw  what  a  collection  there  was  in  the  par- 
lor, she  instinctively  slunk  back  towards  the  door,  and 
would  have  thought  seriously,  even,  of  retreating. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn,  however,  spoke  to  -her,  which  tended 
in  some  degree  to  reassure  her. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  and  put  on  your  bonnet  and 
shawl,"  said  she  ;  "  you  are  going  away  with  this  man." 

Milly's  eyes  were  larger  than  they  ever  were  before. 
She  looked  first  at  the  stranger,  and  then  at  Mrs.  Trev- 
elyn. It  was  difficult  for  her  to  understand  what  was 
meant. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  whispered  in  the  ear  of  Margaret  to  go 
and  bid  the  servant  pack  up  Milly's  clothes  —  what  the 
child  had  —  in  a  little  shawl  or  handkerchief,  and  place 
them  on  the  table  in  the  entry. 

The  tears  came  involuntarily  into  the  child's  eyes. 
Her  lips  quivered,  as  if  she  were  both  struggling  with 
her  feelings  and  her  wish  to  inquire  the  meaning  of  this 


64  DOVECOTE. 

new  project.  Yet  she  said  nothing.  What  would  have 
been  the  avail  of  her  infantile  voice  in  the  storm  of  such 
elements  as  its  very  sound  might  have  had  the  power 
to  provoke  ? 

She  kept  her  hands  working  nervously  at  either  side, 
not  knowing  what  to  do  with  them.  After  the  first 
glance  about  the  room,  her  eyes  were  riveted  to  the 
floor,  as  if  she  were  even  then  trying  to  study  out  the 
problem  of  her  destiny.  A  pretty  creature  was  she 
then,  in  the  height  of  her  inward  excitement,  with  her 
face  so  fair,  flushed  very  deeply,  and  her  auburn  hair 
straggling  in  ringlets  over  her  shoulders  and  neck,  rest- 
ing the  whole  of  her  little  weight  now  on  one  foot,  and 
now  the  other,  her  eyes  dimmed  with  the  dew  of  her 
emotion,  and  her  mouth  working  to  keep  back  the  con- 
vulsions that  seemed  threatening  her  heart. 

"  I  want  you  to  know,  Milly,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyn, 
"  that  we  shall  all  have  to  go  away  from  here  soon,  and 
so  I  send  you  away  first.  I  shall  have  to  go,  too,  and 
so  will  Margaret  and  Ellen.  We  cannot  stay  here,  for 
we  do  not  own  the  place.  It  is  not  ours." 

The  stranger's  eyes  sparkled  while  he  continued 
looking  so  steadily  at  Milly ;  and  it  might  have  been 
that  he  was  at  that  moment  thinking  what  a  kind  wo- 
man Mrs.  Trevelyn  was. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  you  away  with  this  man,"  added 
she ;  "  he  will  take  you  to  the  place  that  is  provided  for 
such  as  you." 

Milly  cried  outright  now. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Trevelyn. 
"  This  is  no  time  to  cry.  Come,  on  with  your  bonnet ; 
the  man's  waiting." 

"  No  verypartic'ler  hurry,  marm,"  ventured  he. 

"All  the  same,  sir,"  she  retorted.     "  It  is  as  well  for 


THE    POORHOU3K.  65 

her  to  go  off  without  any  delay.     She'll  feel  better  than 
if  a  great  deal  was  said  about  it  beforehand  to  her." 

"  It  kinder  seems  a  pity,  too,"  said  the  stranger,  "  to 
take  the  child  out  of  sich  a  good,  fine  house  as" this,  and 
carry  her  to  the  poor  house  !  " 

"  But  what  else  have  I  before  myself  for  my  own 
children  ?  If  I  can  work  enough  to  support  them,  then 
it's  so  much  the  more  I've  got  to  be  thankful  for ;  but 
when  I  happen  to  be  obliged  to  stop  working,  then  what 
is  my  prospect  but  what  hers  is  at  this  minute  ? " 

The  possibility  of  such  an  event  as  her  coming  upon 
the  town  at  last  so  far  went  to  excite  the  selfish  feel- 
ings and  fears  of  Mrs.  Trevelyn,  that  she  was  more  than 
ever  encouraged  in  thinking  that  she  was  doing  the 
very  best  she  could  at  that  time  do  for  Milly. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  little  waif  of  fate  was 
equipped  for  the  journey,  and  the  man  held  her  dimin- 
utive budget  of  clothes  in  his  hand.  He  had  started 
first  towards  the  door,  Mrs.  Trevelyn  following.  The 
girls  were  at  some  distance  behind  her,  moved  not  a 
little  by  so  unusual  a  scene. 

"  I  hope  you'll  do  well,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyn,  "  wher- 
ever you  go." 

"  Please,  may  I  go  up  to  my  little  chamber  before  I 
get  into  the  wagon  ? "  asked  Milly. 

Mrs.  T.  looked  surprisedly  at  her,  and  said,  "  Yes, 
but  don't  be  gone  long."  And  when  she  was  gone,  she 
muttered  aloud,  "  I  wonder  what  she's  gone  up  there 
for!" 

A  strange  curiosity  led  her  to  follow  her  cautiously 
along.  When  Mrs.  Trevelyn  reached  the  door  of  her 
room,  she  found  it  shut.  She  put  her  eyes  down  to  the 
keyhole.  There  a  sight  met  her  for  which  she  was  not 
at  all  prepared. 

6* 


6<i  bOVECOTE. 

Milly  was  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside,  asking  for 
strength  and  resignation.  She  had  not  forgotten  her 
mother's  dying  words,  enjoining  her  to  trust  all  to  God. 

Poor  -child !  How  few  are  as  honestly  tutored  as 
thou !  How  few  are  there  who  know  where  to  go  when 
trouble  sets  about  their  path,  or  when  the  black  cloud 
of  affliction  is  sailing  sullenly  about  their  heads ! 

Milly  came  down  stairs  with  a  countenance  as  serene 
as  day.  The  tears  were  all  gone ;  the  working  of  her 
lips  had  ceased ;  there  was  a  smile  of  resignation  upon 
her  mouth,  though  somewhat  tinged  with  sadness. 

She  bade  them  all  good  by  very  affectionately,  offer- 
ing of  herself  to  kiss  Mrs.  Trevelyn  and  the  girls,  and 
telling  them  she  should  try  to  be  happy  wherever  she 
was.  And  stepping  lightly  down  the  walk,  she  suffered 
herself  to  be  assisted  into  the  wagon  of  the  "  selectman," 
and  rode  at  a  jogging  trot  of  his  horse  down  the  avenue 
and  up  the  road. 

It  was  a  ride  of  a  mile  to  the  village,  and  of  nearly 
three  miles  from  there  to  the  poorhouse.  They  passed 
through  the  former,  and  were  slowly  working  onward  to 
their  destination.  The  air  was  bland  and  pleasant,  and 
the  evening  shadows  were  gathering  about  the  old  stone 
walls,  and  under  the  hedges,  and  in  the  borders  of  the 
woods.  The  breath  of  the  country  breezes,  soft  as  it 
was,  had  a  good  effect  upon  the  feelings  of  Milly,  for  it 
quelled  their  turbulence,  and  gently  soothed  them  to 
peace. 

When  they  reached  the  poorhouse  at  last,  it  was 
quite  dusk.  Milly  looked  closely  around  her  to  try  to 
distinguish  objects,  but  the  most  she  could  make  out, 
that  then  impressed  themselves  upon  her  mind  and 
feelings,  were  the  long,  low,  red  house,  with  the  win- 
dows and  doors  bordered  with  white  paint;  an  open 


THE    POORHOUSE.  67 

space  before  and  about  the  door,  pretty  thickly  strewn 
with  chips  and  gravel ;  a  ragged  pile  of  long  wood,  most 
of  it  called  "  crow  sticks,"  and  chopped  stick  by  stick  as 
daily  necessities  required ;  and  a  low  bench,  that  leaned 
up  against  the  side  of  the  building. 

The  man  drove  up  before  the  farther  door,  and  another, 
low  in  stature  and  with  tangled  hair,  came  to  greet  him, 
resting  his  hands  on  either  side  of  the  door  where  it 
was  painted  white. 

"  I've  brought  ye  another  boarder,  Mr.  Flox,"  said 
Milly's  companion. 

"  She's  a  little  'un,  ain't  she?  "  replied  the  keeper  of 
the  establishment,  taking  her  much  against  her  will,  and 
lifting  her  to  the  ground. 

The  men  stood  talking  together  for  a  few  moments 
in  a  low  voice,  when  the  "selectman"  finally  turned 
round  his  horse's  head,  and  Mr.  Flox  led  Milly  passively 
in  through  the  low  door. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ADAM  BROWNE. 

MILLY  was  carried  into  a  low  and  darkened  room, 
whose  walls  seemed  to  be  threatening  all  the  time  to 
fall  on  her  head,  and  conducted  to  a  seat  upon  the  bench 
that  stood  against  the  partition.  There  was  no  light 
burning,  and  she  could  only  see  that  the  room  appeared 
to  be  full.  She  caught  broken  fragments  of  coarse  sen- 
tences, and  the  remnants  of  boisterous  and  empty  laugh- 
ter, as  she  went  in,  proceeding  from  the  lips  of  men  and 
women  alike. 

This  room  was  professedly  "  the  woman's  room,"  yet 
the  whole  house  was  accustomed  to  gather  here,  the 
better  to  exchange  their  ideas  respecting  the  past,  the 
world,  and  their  future  of  nothing  but  poverty.  A  sorry- 
looking  group,  indeed,  did  they  form ;  women  lolling  in 
low  chairs,  talking  up  with  amazing  pertness  to  the 
rough  fellows  that  were  practising  their  only  rules  of 
refinement  and  sociability  upon  them;  men,  old  and 
young,  sitting  about  without  thought  here  and  there, 
some  resting  their  heads  idly  on  their  hands,  and  their 
elbows  on  the  benches,  or  holding  their  heads  doggedly 
down  between  their  knees  in  the  direction  of  the  floor ; 
a  girl  playing  in  this  corner  with  a  cat,  and  another  sit- 
ting squat  in  the  middle  of  the  hard  floor,  eating  the 
fragments  of  her  coarse  meal ;  two  or  three  boys,  one  a 
little  cripple,  grouped  in  still  another  corner,  playing  at 
cat's-cradle,  and  laughing  thoughtlessly  at  their  blunders 

(68) 


ADAM    DROWNE,  69 

in  the  simple  diversion ;  and  a  little  dog,  with  a  curly 
tail,  and  black  and  white  spots  covering  him,  standing 
sentry  near  the  girl  who  sat  on  the  floor,  watching  with 
a  wistful  anxiety  every  morsel  that  went  from  her  hand 
to  her  mouth. 

In  the  midst  of  this  was  the  soft,  enticing,  dreamy 
breath  of  summer.  The  air  drew  in  at  the  door,  and 
through  the  opened  windows,  trying  hard  to  give  purifi- 
cation to  the  crowded  den  into  which  it  found  its  way. 
The  piping  of  the  summer  frogs  was  to  be  faintly  heard 
from  afar,  and  a  whippoorwill  had  come  down  out  of 
the  woods,  and  was  sitting  on  a  stone  not  far  across  the 
meadow,  loading  the  air  with  her  melancholy  com- 
plaint. 

Byeboro'  —  and  Byeboro'  is  not  a  single  example  of 
what  a  civilized  town  does  for  its  poor — .had  made 
these  provisions  for  those  who  were  unable  to  make 
them  for  themselves.  The  civil  authorities  were  a  very 
shrewd  set  of  men,  and  were,  at  least,  supposed  to 
know  "  a  thing  or  two."  So  they  put  up  their  paupers 
at  auction,  and  knocked  them  ofF  to  the  lowest  bidder. 
It  was  only  a  method  the  town  adopted  of  making  the 
best  of  a  bad  bargain.  Of  course,  Byeboro'  was  not 
compelled  to  provide  for  its  poor ;  and  certainly  it  was 
not  compelled  to  make  any  better  provisions  thau 
would  just  keep  soul  and  body  acquainted.  If  it  wert- 
to  enter  upon  a  field  of  charity,  who  knew  how  far  i» 
ought  to  travel  that  way  better  than  its  august  assem- 
blage of  "  selectmen  "  ?  Why  were  they  "  select "  men, 
unless  to  look  sharply  after  the  interests  of  Byeboro'  ? 
unless  to  see  to  it  that  luxuries  were  not  by  any  pos- 
sible mistake  furnished  to  the  poor  ?  and  that  as  many 
comforts  as  cost  any  tiling  were  struck  off*  with  an  im- 
partial stroke  of  the  pen  from  the  list  of  the  incorporate 
expenses  ? 


70  DOVECOTE. 

This  year  again,  as  for  several  years  before,  the  pau- 
pers had  been  let  out  to  Caleb  Flox,  a  hard  man,  with 
a  burly,  bully  look,  and  a  heart  almost,  if  not  altogether, 
destitute  of  sensibility.  What,  in  the  name  of  sense, 
could  sensibility  have  to  do  with  the  care  of  the  poor  ? 
Nothing;  of  course,  nothing.  So  Mr.  Flox  took  the 
poor,  penned  them  up,  fed  them  so  many  times  a  day, 
and  played  the  part  of  the  experienced  tyrant  that  he 
really  was. 

The  impression  Milly  had  received  from  her  first  intro- 
duction to  this  place  of  its  many  peculiarities  —  strange 
enough  to  one  just  from  the  princely  residence  of  the 
Trevelyns  —  was  too  deep  ever  to  be  effaced.  The 
men  and  the  women  were  present  vividly  before  her 
imagination.  She  had  the  same  close,  foul  atmosphere 
ever  in  her  nostrils,  as  she  recurred  afterwards  to  this 
first  visit,  and  the  same  confused  din  of  voices  constant- 
ly in  her  ears. 

She  began  the  next  day  to  look  a  little  around  her. 
In  such  a  condition  of  embarrassment  herself,  she  would 
naturally  find  it  difficult  exactly  to  possess  the  whole  of 
her  faculties ;  yet  she  made  the  effort,  almost  indiffer- 
ent to  the  experience  to  which  it  might  be  the  means 
of  conducting  her. 

Almost  the  first  person  among  the  whole  of  that  snarl 
of  inmates  to  whom  her  attention  was  directed"  was  a 
thin,  wasted  man,  of  middle  age,  clad  in  little  else  than 
rags,  that  he  preferred  to  any  other  quality  of  garments, 
with  a  white  head  of  straight  hair,  and  blue,  melancholy- 
looking  eyes.  He  fixed  his  mild  gaze  much  upon 
Milly,  as  if  he  were  either  wondering  at  the  strange 
fortune  that  threw  her  into  that  place,  or  quietly  admir- 
ing the  innocent  and  childish  charms  that  surrounded 
her  with  a  grace  that  was  little  less  than  spiritual. 


ADAM     BROWNE.  71 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  when  she  had  been  left 
quite  alone  in  the  apartment,  its  usual  loungers  having 
gone  in  different  directions  to  their  work  and  then- 
pleasure,  he 'came  in  and  sat  down  with  her.  At  first 
he  indulged  himself  with  such  a  protracted  gaze  at  her 
face  that  she  began  to  fear  for  what  he  might  be. 
There  was  an  expression  in  his  blue  eyes  that  seemed 
unfathomable.  They  almost  looked  into  one's  heart 
and  read  its  secret  feelings.  She  turned  her  head 
away  and  let  her  eyes  go  out  through  the  window 

Nervously  throwing  one  foot  across  the  other  knee, 
he  asked  her,  first  clearing  his  voice,  if  she  had  ever 
lived  in  a  poorhouse  before. 

She  turned  round,  half  timidly,  to  him,  and  answered, 
"  No,  sir." 

"  Poor  place  !  Poor  place  enough  !  "  said  he,  shaking 
his  head. 

She  thought  it  very  probable,  judging  from  what  she 
had  already  seen. 

"  You  shouldn't  stay  here,"  said  he  again.  "  It  ain't 
no  place  for  you.  It's  only  a  place  for  such  people  as 
you  see  hereabout,  not  for  you.  I  don't  live  here  my- 
self; I  couldn't .' " 

Milly  wondered,  therefore,  where  he  did  stay ;  and  if 
in  other  quarters,  why  here  at  all,  especially  with  the 
very  just  opinion  he  entertained  of  it. 

"  Pm  nothing  but  a  wanderer  myself,"  continued  he. 
"  I  go  any  where  and  every  where.  He  !  he  !  I  travel 
for  a  living!  That's  all  I  do.  What's  easier  ?  Exactly 
what  I  say  —  what's  easier?  If  I  had  to  live  here,  I 
should  die.  I  couldn't  stand  it  Are  you  goin'  to  stay 
long  ? " 

Milly  hesitated,  for  she  did  not  know  exactly  how  to 
answer  him.  If  she  could  get  away  into  a  better  place, 


72  DOVECOTE. 

—  and  that  was  every  thing  but  an  extravagant  possi- 
bility, —  she  certainly  should  not  stay  here.  That  was 
not  difficult  to  answer  to.  But  could  she  get  away  ? 

So  she  simply  told  him  that  she  didn't  know. 

Her  tone  struck  so  softly  on  his  ear  that  it  seemed  to 
touch  a  chord  of  his  deeper  sympathies.  He  at  once 
opened  himself  freely  to  her,  laboring  chiefly  to  win  her 
confidence. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  o'  me  at  all,"  said  he.  "  I'm 
nobody  to  hurt  you.  I  couldn't  hurt  any  body.  I'm 
only  Adam  Drowne.  I  only  go  about  here  and  there, 
but  I  never  tell  any  body  where.  He  !  he  !  that's  one 
o'  my  secrets.  I  keep  it  locked  up  close.  Mr.  Flox 
tries  to  get  it  away  from  me  sometimes ;  but  he  can't, 
and  he  never  will.  Every  body  knows  Adam  Drowne, 
because  he  goes  every  where,  all  about.  He  sees  a 
good  many  places,  and  knows  a  good  many  people,  and 
travels  a  good  many  miles  ;  yes,  tlurfs  what  he  does  ! 

"  La !  I  know  all  the  folks  that  live  here,  and  all 
about  here.  I  always  stop  here  when  I  come  this  way, 
and  they  get  me  somethin'  to  eat  and  drink,  and  keep 
me  o'  nights.  I  can  tell  you  all  about  the  poor  folks  in 
this  house.  Come,  go  walk  with  me  out  door  a  little 
ways,  and  let's  have  a  talk !  Come ;  will  ye  ?  only 
down  towards  the  river  here.  It's  a  right  pleasant 
mornin',  and  I  know  it's  better  for  you  than  to  stay 
mewed  up  in  this  here  hot  place." 

By  dint  of  much  persuasion,  Milly  was  at  length  in- 
duced to  comply  with  his  proposal ;  and  forthwith  she 
set  out,  walking  silently  along  by  his  side,  with  her  bon- 
net loosely  thrown  over  her  head. 

They  reached  the  edge  of  the  bank  by  which  the  lit- 
tle glassy  river  swam  along,  and  sat  down  ;  Adam 
throwing  himself  upon  the  ground,  and  seating  Milly 


ADAM    DROWNE.  73 

thoughtfully  upon  a  clean,  smooth  stone.  The  lively 
trill  of  the  bobolink  was  to  be  heard  across  the 
meadow,  as,  wheeling  and  gyrating  in  his  intoxicated 
flights,  he  poised  a  moment  on  the  top  of  a  long  reed, 
swinging  and  swaying  to  and  fro  to  the  music  of  his 
voice  and  the  dancing  of  his  little  heart.  The  crickets 
were  letting  their  clocks  run  slowly  down  in  the  deep, 
green  grass  ;  while  afar  down  the  channel  the  river 
broke  in  a  thousand  diminutive  cascades  over  rocks  and 
stones,  and  rippled  and  brawled  its  pleasant  way  en- 
tirely out  of  sight  among  the  darkening  willows  and 
beeches. 

"  You  see,"  continued  Adam  Drowne,  picking  up  the 
thread  of  his  story  again ;  "  you  see,  I  know  all  about 
these  folks  here,  from  Caleb  Flox  all  the  way  down ; 
and  a  very  curious  people  be  they,  too.  There's  Crazy 
Jane ;  she's  always  puttin'  herself  forward ;  she  don't 
get  no  attention  from  nobody ;  she's  crazy,  and  that's 
all  you  can  say  about  her.  Have  you  seen  her  yet  ? " 

Milly  told  him  that  she  had. 

"  How  she  stares  at  a  body  ! "  said  Adam ;  "  and 
what  great  gray  eyes  she's  got !  " 

So  Milly  thought,  too. 

"  Then  there's  old  Ponce  —  the  old  feUow  with  the 
wooden  leg ;  you've  seen  him,  hain't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  she. 

"  He's  always  tellin'  his  war  stories,  and  always 
fightin'  his  old  battles  over  again.  And  I  like  to  hear 
him,  too,  sometimes ;  but,  then,  the  rest  of  'em  don't. 
They  get  tired  of  it.  They  don't  understand  him.  You 
see,  there's  nothin'  like  understandiri  what  a  person's 
talkin'  about.  Don't  you  think  so  ? " 

Milly  said  yes,  of  course. 

"  Then,  again,"  he  went  on,  "  there's  little  Kit ;  he's 
7 


74  DOVECOTS. 

the  little  cripple  that  goes  on  the  crutches,  and  a  pitiful 
object  he  always  was  to  me,  too.  I'm  as  sorry  for  him 
as  I  ever  was  for  any  body  in  all  my  life.  He's  got 
something  in  his  face  that  tells  that  he  ought  to  ha'  been 
put  into  a  different  situation.  I  pity  him,  indeed  I  do. 
And  there's  Snarly  Moll  —  she's  a  real  curiosity.  Have 
you  seen  her  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  that  that  was  her  name,"  answered 
Milly. 

"  It's  what  they  all  call  her,"  continued  Adam.  "  She 
got  the  name  by  always  wearin'  her  red  hair  so  over  her 
face  and  eyes.  It's  an  odd  name  too  —  Snarly  Moll !  " 
And  the  garrulous  old  man  fairly  chuckled  with  the 
thought  of  so  unique  an  appellation. 

Adam  Drowne  was  a  strange  medley  of  characteris- 
tics himself.  He  was  generally  reputed  to  be  "  love- 
cracked,"  some  unfortunate  termination  to  an  old  attach- 
ment being  the  cause  of  the  mysterious  mischief.  As 
he  had  himself  represented,  he  was  no  less  than  a  wan- 
derer, going  here  and  there  at  his  will.  Probably  he  had 
mapped  out  in  his  mind  some  particular  route  for  his 
journeys  to  and  fro,  and  had  his  regular  stopping-places 
absolutely  fixed  and  defined ;  but  of  this  he  had  never 
spoken  to  any  one,  so  his  ceaseless  rambles  were  mat- 
ter of  mystery  to  every  body  who  knew  of  them. 

He  was  shrivelled  and  thin.  His  hands  and  limbs 
were  very  much  attenuated,  probably  from  excessive 
walking  and  little  food.  The  coat  that  he  wore  was  all 
in  shreds,  patched  and  darned  until  the  original  field  of 
cloth  was  hardly  discoverable.  People  circulated  the 
story  that  he  had  purchased  this  for  his  wedding  coat, 
and  that  he  had  worn  no  other  since  the  catastrophe 
that  sent  him  and  his  affections  adrift.  Summer  and 
winter  the  same  darned  coat  covered  his  shoulders.  In 


ADAM    DROWXE.  75 

the  coldest  of  weathers,  he  suffered  no  other  garment  to 
conceal  its  picturesque  tatters. 

There  was  a  pleasant  mildness  in  his  speech  that 
wrought  with  a  favorable  effect  on  the  mind  of  Milly. 
It  was  so  different  from  the  manner  every  one  else 
seemed  to  have  there.  And  the  softness  of  his  wan- 
dering blue  eye  helped  to  carry  forward  the  agreeable 
influences,  so  that,  before  the  child  had  been  a  great 
while  in  his  company,  she  felt  herself  irresistibly  at- 
tracted to  him  by  his  kindness.  It  was  something  she 
had  not  experienced  in  a  long  while,  and  so  doubly 
welcome  to  her  heart. 

For  quite  a  couple  of  hours  did  Adam  stroll  about  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  poorhouse  with  Milly,  telh'ng  her 
more  particularly  of  those  who  were  gathered  in  the 
same  unhappy  flock  with  herself,  asking  her  questions 
of  her  former  relations  and  friends,  and  telling  her  that 
she  should  not  stay  long  in  such  a  place  as  that,  if  he 
could  do  any  thing  to  prevent  it. 

Mrs.  Trevelyn  sending  Milly  to  the  poorhouse,  and 
a  poor,  simple,  but  kindhearted  creature  like  Adam 
Drowne  offering  to  get  her  out!  Such  is  one  of  the 
many  strong  contrasts  that  the  world  furnishes  at  every 
point. 


CHAPTER   X. 

LIFE  AMONG  THE  PAUPEES. 

ADAM  suddenly  absented  himself,  and  Milly  felt  more 
lonely  than  ever.  While  he  was  there,  she  began  to 
think  there  was  one  single  green  spot  on  which  her 
hungry  sympathies  might  feed ;  but  now  that  he  was 
gone,  chaos  seemed  to  have  come  again  to  her  heart. 

A  dismal,  uncomfortable  house  indeed  was  the  poor- 
house,  and  its  two  chief  rooms  were  thronging  with  the 
most  forbidding  fancies.  The  ceiling  was  low,  and  the 
walls  were  stained  and  spotted.  The  plaster  had  been 
worn  off  in  places  under  the  windows  by  the  attrition 
of  cowhide  boots  ,and  knees  harder  than  flint  or  horn. 
The  stove  that  went  a  part  of  the  way  towards  warm- 
ing it  in  winter  still  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
and  into  its  gaping  mouth  were  thrown  bits  of  tobacco, 
stained  pipe  stems  that  had  broken  between  the  smo- 
kers' crunching  teeth,  whittlings  of  pine  sticks,  a  few 
fragments  of  old  teacups,  and  scraps  of  used-up  news- 
papers. A  few  boughs  of  evergreen  would  have  bred 
a  spirit  of  beauty  even  in  that  foul  apartment ;  but  the 
boughs  of  evergreen  had  never  been  stuck  there,  and 
never  would  be. 

The  floor  was  not  a  whit  too  clean,  and  marked  and 
scarred  all  over  with  chair  legs  and  boot  heels.  Some 
of  the  chairs  were  tilted  up  against  the  wall,  standing 
thus  idly  through  the  long  forenoons,  till  their  old  occu- 
pants came  to  claim  them  again.  There  was  a  mouldy 

(76) 


LIFE    AMONG    THE    PAUPERS.  77 

smell  from  the  walls,  and  in  some  places  they  exuded 
a  foul  sweat  sufficient  to  breed  a  legion  of  diseases. 
Each  one  appeared  to  occupy  a  particular  place  about 
the  room,  and  the  rest  quietly  respected  his  or  her  chair. 

Sometimes  Caleb  Flox  was  obliged  to  resort  to  strin- 
gent measures  to  enforce  his  authority,  although  such 
measures  he  never  failed  to  threaten  them  every  one 
with  when  he  spoke  to  them  of  his  wishes  ;  but  there 
had  been  occasions  when  his  cruelty  was  exercised  to  a 
degree  beyond  what  even  such  uncivilized  beings  as 
the  "  selectmen"  of  Byeboro'  should  have  tolerated.  As 
an  example  at  hand,  he  was  guilty  of  turning  hot  water 
from  the  teakettle  upon  the  arms  of  one  of  his  charge, 
a  woman,  because  she  refused  to  go  through  the  Mon- 
day's washing  service.  He  touched  up  the  sensibilities 
of  some  of  the  men  at  times  with  a  heated  poker,  in 
order  to  quicken  their  progress  to  and  from  the  wood 
pile  before  the  door.  Few  soft  words,  either,  had  he  to 
waste  on  any  of  them.  He  said  he  wanted  to  govern, 
he  cared  not  whether  by  fair  means  or  foul ;  and  govern 
he  did,  and  by  the  foulest  method  humanity  was  known 
any  where  to  tolerate. 

Under  so  tyrannical  a  master,  the  subjects  were  burn- 
ing up  with  their  private  animosities  and  desires  of  re- 
venge. They  all  longed  for  the  day  to  dawn  when  they 
could  dabble  with  the  hot  blood  of  his  heart !  No  less 
• than  this  were  the  prejudices  that  fired  their  feelings. 
No  result  short  of  this  would  they  fix  their  purposes 
upon. 

Mr.  Flox  had  said  but  little  to  Milly,  as  yet,  nor  did  he 
seem  much  to  notice  her.  It  was  his  way,  first  to  depress 
the  spirits  and  sap  the  self-respect  of  his  charge,  and 
afterwards  to  crush  them  with  the  iron  heel  of  his  selfish, 
bullying,  blustering  tyranny.  No  feeling  need  they  at- 
7* 


78  DOVECOTE. 

tempt  to  display  near  him.  He  did  not  allow  such  things 
They  must  calculate  with  precision  upon  but  one  thing; 
and  that  was,  to  obey  him.  And  through  fear,  and  fear 
alone,  they  were  made  to  do  it. 

Milly  sat  in  the  room  where  all  the  rest  congregated 
in  the  evening,  sometimes  half  dozing  upon  the  hard 
bench  that  was  her  only  seat,  and  some  of  the  time 
compelled  to  listen  to  the  talk,  idle  as  it  all  was,  of 
the  strange  beings  around  her.  During  these  summer 
evenings  they  were  not  allowed  a  light  in  the  room, 
but  sat  in  the  darkness,  the  summer  wind  drawing  in 
through  the  open  windows,  and  the  babbling  of  then- 
voices  sounding  like  the  drowsy  drone  of  a  beehive  on 
the  still  air  of  the  evening. 

Snarly  Moll  she  already  knew,  for  no  one  could  stay 
in  that  place  long  and  not  know  her.  She  was  the  one 
who  sat  on  fhe  floor,  munching  her  supper,  on  Milly's 
first  entrance  into  the  place.  Crazy  Jane  was  a  char- 
acter she  dreaded.  There  was  a  wildness  in  her  eyes, 
as  they  looked  straight  into  your  own,  that  bred  a  half 
fear  for  what  she  might  wish  to  do  to  you.  Old  Ponce 
was  as  much  in  the  habit  of  making  himself  observed 
as  any  of  them,  sitting  sometimes  with  his  round-eyed 
spectacles  across  his  nose,  resting  his  hands  upon  the 
top  of  his  high  walking  stick,  and  jabbering  persever- 
ingly  to  any  one  who  had  the  patience  to  listen  to  him. 

As  soon  as  he  had  fairly  got  the  idea  into  his  brain 
that  Milly  was  a  new  comer  to  that  place,  he  thought  it 
belonged  to  him  to  go  through  the  confused  history  of 
his  sieges  and  his  battles  again,  ostensibly  that  he 
might  gratify  in  this  way  his  own  love  of  narration; 
but  in  reality,  that  Milly,  as  all  the  rest  had  been,  in  their 
turn,  might  be  enabled  to  understand  the  length,  and 
breadth,  and  depth  of  his  experiences. 


LIFE    AMONG    THE    PAUPERS.  79 

So  one  evening  he  began  :  — 

"  When  I  was  a-fightin'  in  the  last  war,"  said  he, 
resting  his  hands  as  usual  on  the  top  of  his  stick  and 
winking  fiercely,  "when  I  was  off  down  to  Stun'tun 
Pint,  and  the  British  ship " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  was  ever  to  Stun'tun  Pint, 
Ponce  !  "  interrupted  Snarly  Moll,  kicking  up  her  heels 
from  the  floor.  "  What  an  old  Ponce  you  be,  sure  for  it 
now ! " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  was  there.  I  was  over  't  the  Pint ! " 
said  Crazy  Jane,  wringing  her  hands  gently,  and  staring 
thoughtlessly  here  and  there  over  the  floor.  "  It's  an 
old  story,  and  I've  told  it  a  good  many  times.  Yes, 
yes ;  /was  't  the  Pint  then,  too." 

Nobody  seemed  to  notice  either  her  or  what  she  said, 
however. 

"  You  see,"  said  Ponce,  continuing,  as  if  thoroughly 
used  to  these  interruptions,  "  we  made  ready  for  the 
pesky  British  frigate  when  she  come  up " 

"  Make  ready,  fire  ?  Was  that  it,  Ponce  ?  "  said  Snar- 
ly Moll,  laughing. 

"  We  was  fixin'  up  a  sort  o'  battery  on  the 
shore " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  broke  in  Crazy  Jane,  repeating  the  words 
after  him  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  it  was  a  sort  o'  battery  ! 
That  was  it !  /was  there ;  /was  over  't  the  Pint,  and 
see  it  all." 

"  We  hadn't  got  but  one  piece  o'  ordnance  nowhere  ; 
'twas  all  there  was  round ;  so  we  fetched  her  up  to  the 
line "  —  here  he  made  some  curious  sort  of  a  gesture, 
intended  to  describe  either  the  line  itself  or  the  method 
of  getting  the  gun  up  to  it  —  "  and  got  ready  to  let  her 
talk  for  herself." 

"  Could  she  talk  as  much  as  you  do,  Ponce  ?  "  asked 


Moll.  "  I  don't  b'lieve  it.  She  couldn't  begin  with  you, 
Ponce  !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  " 

"  Yes,  she  did  her  own  talkin',  that's  what  she  did," 
chimed  in  Crazy  Jane,  still  rubbing  her  hands  and  look- 
ing very  inquisitively  around  upon  the  floor.  "  /was 
there,  and  I  know." 

"  At  fust,"  said  Ponce,  moving  his  whole  leg  to  an 
easier  position,  "  we  had  to  take  it " 

"  Yes,  that's  what  we  did  !  We  had  to  take  it !  I 
was  there,  and  I  know,"  added  Jane. 

"  You  was  there  ?  "  said  Moll,  looking  drolly  up  in  her 
face.  t  . 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  harmless  demented,  still  directing 
her  attention  about  the  floor,  "  I  was  there.  I  know  all 
about  it.  I  see  it  all." 

"  So  was  /  there  !  You're  a  fool,  Jane  !  You  don't 
know  nothing ! " 

"  Yes,  you  was  there,  too,"  returned  Jane.  "  It  was 
four  and  twenty  year  ago  ;  but  you  was  there,  for  I  see 
you  there ;  and  I  picked  up  your  head,  after  a  cannon 
ball  had  shot  it  off,  and  stuck  it  on  your  shoulders 
again." 

"  Ponce,"  cried  Snarly  Moll,  "  Crazy  Jane  says  /was 
down  to  the  battle  o'  Stun'tun  Pint.  Was  I  there  ? 
Was  she  there  ?  " 

Old  Ponce  laughed  a  very  imbecile  laugh,  and  went 
on  again. 

"  But  the  British  ship  got  on  broadside,  so  't  she  raked 
us  all  clean.  We  couldn't  stan'  that.  We  had  to  give 
it  up  for  a  little  while.  We  couldn't  get  the  thunderin' 
old  gun  in  place  quick  enough.  Gracious  !  but  you 
ought  to  ha"  heerd  them  hot  cannon  balls  whiz  — 
whiz  by  a  feller's  ears  !  How  we  hopped,  though  ! " 
And  the  worn  old  veteran,  thus  rewarded  with  a  poor- 


LIFE    AMONG    THE    PAUPERS.  81 

house  for  his  patriotic  sacrifice  of  a  leg,  raised  his 
stick  high  from  the  floor  in  the  excitement  of  his 
narration. 

By  this  time,  little  Kit,  the  cripple,  had  drawn  him- 
self quite  near  the  old  man,  and  was  listening  with  all 
intentness  to  the  same  narrative  he  had  probably  heard 
a  hundred  times  before.  It  was  a  touching  tribute  of 
his  deep  respect  for  the  man  who  had  fought  the  bat- 
tles of  his  country.  That  country  itself  had  not  re- 
warded him  with  one  half  the  affection. 

"  Don't  hit  me  with  your  stick,  Ponce,"  cried  Snarly 
Moll,  lifting  her  hand  supplicatingly.  "  You're  ferocious 
when  you  get  to  fightin'  your  wars  round  here." 

"  But  we  got  the  advantage,  somehow,  at  last,"  "con- 
tinued the  veteran  soldier.  "  Nobody  else  thought  we 
should  ;  but  /thought  we  should.  I  see  the  British  fel- 
lers didn't  haul  their  ship  round,  jest  as  if  they  under- 
stood the  spot  they'd  got  on  to.  I  see  it  myself,  and  I 
told  'em  so." 

"  Yes,"  added  Jane,  "  I  was  there,  too  ;  and  I  see  it, 
too.  I  see  it  all  myself,  and  I  knew  they'd  have  to 
clear." 

"  Jane,"  said  Snarly  Moll,  "  won't  you  tell  us  some- 
thing you  never  did  see  ?  'cause  Til  go  right  off  and 
see  it  myself  at  once.  What  is  it,  Jane  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I'll  go  right  off  myself  and  see 
it,  too  ? " 

"  Did  the  British  fire  on  you  any  more,  Ponce  ?  "  in- 
quired little  Kit,  thinking  he  might  venture  a  word  in 
the  midst  of  the  snarl. 

"  Yes,  they  fired  any  more,"  replied  Jane,  to  whom 
the  question  was  by  no  means  addressed.  "  But  they 
had  to  clear.  I  knew  they  would.  I  was  there  myself, 
and  I  see  it  all.  Them  was  brave  old  times  for  folks 


82  DOVECOTE. 

that  was  alive  then.  Folks  ain't  now  as  they  was  once, 
a  good  while  ago,  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  you  ever  was  a  girl ! "  exclaimed 
Snarly  Moll,  brushing  back  the  tangled  red  hair  from 
out  of  her  eyes. 

"  But  I  see  it,"  protested  Jane.  "  I  see  it  all  my- 
self!" 

"  We  finally  got  our  old  rusty  eighteen  pounder  to  bear 
on  the  frigate,"  continued  Ponce,  "  and  let  fly.  Gra- 
cious !  but  you'd  ought  to  ha'  been  there,  to  see  'em 
jump  ! " 

"  Yes,  /  was  there,  and  /  see  'em  jump  ;  /  see  'em 
let  fly,"  said  Crazy  Jane. 

"  Didn't  you  fly,  Jane,"  asked  the  saucy  Moll. 

"  Yes,  /flew.  I  was  there,  and  I  see  it  all.  /flew, 
too  ! " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  "  laughed  the  roguish  tatterdemalion, 
rolling  over  on  the  floor  at  thinking  of  the  success  of 
her  trap  for  the  poor  insane  woman.  "  Crazy  Jane 
flew !  I'd  like  to  see  her  fly  now !  Id  give  my  old 
shoes,  and  throw  in  the  bunnet  old  Flox  promised  me, 
if  Jane  'd  only  take  a  good  smart  fly  over  the  wood 
pile ! " 

"  Arter  we  gi'n  'em  one  grist,"  said  Ponce,  devoted 
only  to  the  absorbing  interest  of  his  story,  "  we  kep'  it 
up.  There  warn't  no  stoppin'  us,  then,  I  tell  you." 

"  O,  shet  up  your  long  story,  Ponce  !  "  cried  a  coarse 
woman,  in  the  farther  dark  corner  of  the  room.  "  Let 
somebody  else  have  a  chance  to  talk,  won't  ye  ?  " 

"  Who's  a  talkin',  now,  but  yourself? "  asked  Snarly 
Moll,  raising  herself  on  her  elbow,  to  give  greater  force 
and  directness  to  her  question.  "  Old  Ponce's  got  as 
good  a  right  to  talk  as  you  have  !  " 

"  That  Snarly  Moll's  a  sassy  girl ! "  replied  the 
woman  in  the  corner,  indignantly. 


LIFE    AMONG    THE    PAUPEES.  83 

"  Who  says  so  now  ? "  asked  Moll  again.  "  You  don't 
know  nothin'  about  it." 

"  No,  she  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,"  added  Crazy 
Jane.  "  But  /know  somethin'  about  it.  I've  been  there, 
and  I  see  it  all  myself." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it,  Jane  ? "  asked  Moll, 
rather  coaxingly  than  otherwise. 

"  I  know  she's  sassy"  said  Jane,  "  for  I've  been  there, 
and  I  see  it  all  myself." 

"  We  swep'  the  deck,  fore  an'  aft,"  went  on  Ponce. 
"  I  could  see  the  British  chaps  a  tumblin'  down  —  tum- 
blin'  down,  one  after  the  other,  and  a  pullin'  their  corpses 
up  one  on  another." 

"  O  Ponce !  Fool,  Ponce !  Do  hush  your  confounded 
long  story  about  what  you  never  see  nor  heerd  on," 
again  broke  forth  the  female  voice  from  the  corner. 

"  Who's  the  biggest  fool  ? "  venturously  asked  Snarly 
Moll,  turning  her  battery  again  in  the  direction  of  the 
corner. 

"  Moll,  ef  I  ketch  you  away  from  home ! "  threatened 
the  woman. 

"  Yes,  ketch  a  white  weasel  asleep,  will  ye  ? "  re- 
torted the  invincible  and  energetic  girl,  never  hesitating 
for  a  reply. 

"  I'll  tangle  your  hair  worse'n  it  was  ever  tangled 
yet!" 

"  I'd  like  to  have  you  curl  it  for  me,  if  you  would," 
said  Moll. 

"  I'll  do  it  some  day  with  the  tongs  !  " 

"  Papers'll  do  it  better'n  curlin'  tongs,"  replied  Moll. 
"  Wouldn't  you  color  it  too  ?  " 

To  this  the  woman  thought  best  to  make  no  answer. 

Ponce  tried  to  go  on. 

"  They  worked  their  old  frigate  off  soundin's  jest  as 


84  -       DOVECOTE. 

fast  as  they  any  ways  could,"  said  he,  "  and  stood  out 
to  sea.  I  see  how  things  was  goin',  but  says  I, '  Boys, 
give  it  to  'em !  Don't  let  the  old  gun  stop  her  noise 
yet !  Give  it  to  'em,  boys ! '  I  hadn't  more'n  got  the 
words  out  o'  my  mouth,  whack  come  a  big  ball  they 
thought  they'd  make  us  a  partin'  present  of,  and  took 
off  my  leg!  —  took  it  off  smack  an'  smooth!  They 
picked  me  up,  they  told  me,  but  I  never  knew  nothin' 
more  about  it." 

"  You  died  then,  djdn't  you,  Ponce  ? "  asked  Snarly 
Moll. 

"  Yes,  he  died  then,"  answered  Crazy  Jane  for  him. 
"  I  was  there  myself.  I  see  him  die.  I  see  it  all  my- 
self." 

The  woman  in  the  corner  immediately  saw  proper  to 
set  up  a  loud  noise,  something  between  a  shriek  and  a 
yell  of  laughter. 

"And  you  died  too,  didn't  you,  Jane?"  persisted  the 
roguish  girl. 

"  Yes,  I  died  too.  I  see  it  all  I  died  too.  I  was 
there,  and  I  see  it  all  myself! " 

Another  indescribable  shout  from  the  corner. 

"  I  never'll  forgit  that  day,"  said  Ponce. 

"  Nor  I,  nor  I,"  added  Jane,  stooping  down  to  pursue 
her  idle  habit  of  touching  any  part  of  the  floor  to  which 
her  wild  fancy  led  her. 

Little  Kit  was  in  deep  thought.  Milly  felt  bewil- 
dered in  the  midst  of  this  confusion.  Her  thoughts 
strayed  away  to  her  mother,  and  the  sadness  that 
shadowed  her  heart  would  have  settled  down  perma- 
nently there  for  the  night,  had  not  the  shrill  call  of 
Caleb  Flox,  summoning  all  to  bed,  dissipated,  in  some 
degree,  the  influence  that  was  slowly  creeping  over 
her. 


LIFE    AMONG    THE    PAUPERS.  85 

She  took  up  her  line  of  march,  therefore,  with  the 

rest,  laying  away  her  weary  frame  on  a  little  crib  that 

stood  next  that  of  the  woman  whose  fierce  voice  from 

the  corner  had  so  much  startled  her  during  the  evening. 

8 


CHAPTER  XL 

JOLL.Y  AND   MOLLY. 

THE  next  morning,  not  a  long  time  after  her  breakfast, 
Milly  strolled  off  by  herself  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 
Her  thoughts  were  more  saddened  than  ever,  and 
from  being  an  unwilling  witness  to  the  daily  scenes 
that  transpired  around  her,  she  hardly  knew  or  cared 
whither  she  was  going,  only  let  her  find  solitude.  Alone, 
she  could  give  herself  up,  without  interruption,  to  the 
whole  of  her  grief. 

She  wandered  down  to  the  river  again,  to  the  same 
spot  where  Adam  and  she  had  before  sat.  There  was 
a  loose  pile  of  hewn  lumber  near,  and  to  the  farther  end 
of  this,  next  the  river  bank,  she  directed  her  steps. 
One  plank,  longer  than  the  rest,  jutted  out  towards  the 
river,  its  extremity  reaching  quite  to  the  edge  of  the 
bank.  Upon  this,  in  about  the  middle  of  it,  Milly  sat 
down.  The  rest  of  the  pile  served  to  conceal  her  from 
view. 

The  river  was  glassy  and  beautiful  to  look  upon,  sail- 
ing down  so  silently  just  at  her  feet,  over  which  the 
willows  and  the  birches  hung  their  boughs,  mirroring 
their  many  leaves  in  its  surface.  The  morning  air  was 
deliciously  fresh,  and  she  could  not  help  contrasting  it 
with  the  impure  atmosphere  that  infected  the  rooms  of 
the  poorhouse.  And  in  her  thoughts,  too,  danced  pleas- 
ant comparisons  between  the  close  and  stifled  life  of 
the  town,  up  whose  streets  these  sweet  summer  breaths 

(86) 


MILLY    AND    MOLLY.  87 

from  the  meadows  never  came,  and  the  open,  broad, 
generous  life  of  the  country.  The  latter  was  immeas- 
urably more  welcome  to  her  heart.  Yet  that  heart  was 
unsatisfied.  It  still  yearned  for  something  it  had  not. 
It  felt  an  aching  void  that  no  one  near  her  then  had  the 
power  to  supply. 

And  while  she  sat  there  so  musingly  on  the  hewn 
log,  her  eyes  following  the  sluggish  course  of  the  dark 
water,  the  sound  as  of  some  one  jumping  from  a  height 
fell  on  her  ear,  and  she  felt  herself  jarred  quite  thor- 
oughly. Looking  round,  in  no  little  affright,  she  spied 
Snarly  Moll. 

"  So  you  steal  off  here  to  be  alone,  do  ye  ?  "  saluted 
Moll,  standing  on  the  spot  where  her  jump  had  landed 
her.  "Afraid  o'  the  rest  of  us  ?  Don't  you  think  we're 
bears  or  bisons  ?  or  what  is't  that  makes  you  run  away 
from  us  all  so  ? " 

"  I  love  to  be  alene,"  answered  Milly,  not  without 
some  considerable  fear  of  her  questioner. 

"Alone .'  and  who  don't  like  to  be  alone,  when  they 
can  git  out  o'  the  noise  of  sich  a  house  as  Caleb  Flox's. 
But  the  thing  on't  is,  we  don't  allow  sich  doin's  here. 
We  live  together.  We're  all  alike,  the  whole  on  us. 
This  ain't  no  place  to  play  the  part  o'  big  feelin's. 
What  makes  your  hair  curl  so  ?  mine  don't ! " 

Milly  told  her  that  it  curled  itself.  She  didn't  know 
what  made  it  do  so. 

"  But  come,  let's  find  out.  I  snum,  I'll  know,  if  it 
costs  me  a  little  trouble ! "  and  she  glided  along  towards 
her  on  the  beam.  "  I  want  to  make  mine  curl,  and  if  I 
find  out  what's  the  reason  yours  does,  I  guess  I  can  git 
mine  into  jest  the  same  way." 

Milly  begged  her  not  to  come  too  near  her.  She  did 
not  tell  her  why,  but  it  was  plain  that  her  fear  of  Snarly 


88  DOVECOTE. 

Moll  was  very  great,  and  that  the  latter  meant  to  avail 
herself  richly  of  the  discovery. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  a  bear  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  goin' 
to  eat  you  up  ?  "  asked  Moll. 

The  child  made  no  answer,  yet  she  trembled  from 
her  head  to  her  feet. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  want  to  see  your  hair .' "  said  Moll,  ad- 
vancing still  nearer.  "  Shake  out  your  curls !  I'll  see 
'em,  if  it  costs  me " 

"  Please  don't  come  too  near,"  pleaded  Milly. 

"  Please  don't  come  too  near ! "  mimicked  Moll. 
"  Who's  a  comin'  too  near !  What  are  you  afraid  of? 
You  don't  think  I've  come  to  eat  you  up,  or  carry  you 
off,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  be  alone,"  said  Milly. 

"And  I  don't  think  it's  good  for  you,"  added  she. 
"  You'll  get  cold,  settin'  here  on  this  log  so.  Come,  get 
up." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Snarly  Moll." 

Milly  called  her  by  that  sobriquet  before  thinking 
whether  it  was  proper  or  not.  Every  body  else  thus 
entitled  her,  and  she  was  hardly  mature  enough  yet  to 
consider  whether  it  would  be  altogether  as  pleasing 
from  her  lips  as  from  those  of  older  acquaintance. 

Moll  fired  anew  at  once. 

"  Who  told  you  to  call  me  Snarly  Moll  ?  Who  said 
my  name  was  Snarly  Moll  ?  I'll  have  you  to  know  that 
I'm  jest  as  good  as  you  be.  You  live  in  the  poorhouse, 
and  so  do  L  What's  the  difference,  now?  Snarly 
Moll ! "  —  she  spoke  it  very  sneeringly,  — "  as  if  /was 
any  more  snarly  than  you  be !  You're  a  little  fool !  tlio£s 
what  you  be !  and  I've  a  precious  good  mind  to  duck 
you  for  your  sass ! " 

"  Indeed,"  mildly  ventured  Milly,  seeing  that  she  had 


MILLY    AND    MOLLY.  89 

unintentionally  wounded  her  feelings,  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  say  so.  I  didn't  know  what  I  did  say.  I'm  sorry  for 
it,  Moll." 

"  Moll !  Snarly  Moll !  there  it  is  agin  !  I  don't  believe 
you're  sorry  for  it,  and  all  your  talk  is  stuff!  Call  me 
Snarly  Moll  agin,  if  you  dare  !  " 

"  I  never  will,"  said  Milly.  "  I  didn't  know  what  else 
to  call  you.  All  the  rest  do." 

"  But  that's  no  reason  why  you  should,  you 
little " 

"  Don't,  Moll !  "  pleaded  Milly,  desiring  to  check  her 
rising  wrath. 

"  Moll,  agin !  I  tell  you  I  won't  take  it  from  such 
low-bred  folks  as  you  belong  to  !  Don't  call  me  that 
agin,  now ! " 

"  What  shall  I  call  you  ?  "  asked  Milly,  submissively. 

"  Call  me  any  thing  !  Call  me  nothing  !  But  mind 
you  don't  call  me  Snarly  Moll  any  more  !  " 

The  child  was  silent  with  chagrin  and  fear.  She 
dreaded  to  open  her  lips  again,  lest  she  might  utter 
something  at  which  Moll  might  unaccountably  be 
offended. 

"  Who  are  you,  any  how  ? "  asked  Moll,  after  eying 
her  fiercely  for  several  minutes.  "  Where  did  you  come 
from  ?  " 

No  reply.     Milly  was  afraid  to  answer. 

"  Hain't  you  got  no  mother  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Milly.    ' 

"  Nor  father,  nuther  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  him." 

"  That's  odd  !  But  who  brought  you  here  ?  Where 
did  you  live  before  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  At  Mrs.  Trevelyn's." 

"  Soho  !  Then  you're  one  o'  the  rich  ones,  hey  ? 
8* 


90  DOVECOTE. 

And  because  the  old  man  killed  himself —  so  they  say 
—  you  had  to  come  to  the  poorhouse  ?  T/tat's  a  pretty 
fix !  Where's  the  rest  of  'em  ?  What  did  they  send 
you  here  for,  and  not  come  themselves  ?  " 

"  They  didn't  love  me,"  said  Milly,  in  a  very  touch- 
ing tone.  "  Nobody  loves  me  !  " 

And,  upon  this,  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  violent 
weeping. 

The  heart  of  Snarly  Moll  was  reached.  Every  other 
plea  might  have  failed  to  touch  her  sympathies,  but  this 
deep  evidence  of  sorrow  stirred  them  all  with  a  power- 
ful influence. 

"  Don't  cry  !  "  she  said,  her  tone  entirely  changed. 

The  turn  of  her  manner,  but  now  so  unfeeling  and 
cruel,  made  Milly  cry  more  than  ever. 

"  Poor  thing  !     I  pity  you  ;  I  do,"  said  she  to  herself. 

Unused  to  such  sights,  she  hardly  knew  how  to  treat 
them.  Her  feelings  were  honest  enough,  and  earnest 
enough,  at  bottom,  but  she  had  never  yet  been  taught 
how  to  smooth  their  surface  so  that  others  might  be- 
hold the  reflections  in  them. 

"  Don't  cry  so  !  "  she  said  again.  "  I'd  rather  you'd 
strike  me  than  to  see  you  cry  so  !  /didn't  mean  to  say 
hard  things  to  you.  I'm  different  from  you,  you  see.  I 
don't  go  to  work  the  same  way.  But  don't  cry  so,  I  beg 
of  you !  It  won't  do  no  good,  and  it  may  do  a  good 
deal  o'  hurt.  What  makes  you  think  you  hain't  got  no 
friends  ? " 

"  Nobody  says  any  thing  to  me,"  said  Milly.  "  I'm 
all  alone  here.  My  mother  is  dead.  I  don't  know  who 
to  go  to.  I  can't  help  crying  !  "  And  she  renewed  it 
again. 

Moll  went  now  and  sat  down  on  the  log  beside  her, 
intwining  her  arm  about  her  waist. 


MILLY    AND    MOLLY.  91 

"  You  have  got  one  friend,"  said  she,  trying  to  comfort 
the  child.  "  Ftt  be  your  friend,  if  nobody  else  will. 
You  may  call  me  your  friend,  if  you  want  to.  Will 
you  ? " 

Milly  could  not  answer  yet. 

"  I  didn't  mean  nothing,"  she  went  on,  "  when  I  told 
you  sich  hard  things.  I'm  sorry  I  said  'em  now.  I 
didn't  think  you  had  sich  feelin's.  I  never  knew  any 
body  that  had  sich  feelin's  before  Don't  cry  any  more  ! 
I'll  promise  to  do  what  I  can  to  make  you  com- 
fortable ! " 

Milly  tried  to  dry  her  tears,  and  Moll  sat  still  holding 
her  about  the  waist  and  musing  on  the  hidden  life  of 
her  little  companion.  There  was  something  she  could 
not  explain  to  herself,  in  being  thus  thrown  by  the  side 
of  one  so  fresh  from  the  great  outer  world.  And  as 
soon  as  the  child  could  sufficiently  compose  herself, 
Moll  went  into  a  long  list  of  interrogations  respecting 
her  life,  the  town  and  its  attractive  mysteries,  the  paved 
streets, — which  she  thought  must  be  something  "  won- 
derful cur'ous  "  to  see,  —  the  fine  ladies,  and  the  crowd- 
ed buildings. 

The  fancy  of  Snarly  Moll  had  taken  fire  before 
she  had  talked  long  on  the  matter,  and  she  declared  to 
Milly,  that  as  soon  as  an  opportunity  offered  she  should 
herself  walk  those  same  streets,  and  let  her  own  eyes 
look  on  those  same  buildings.  It  was,  henceforth,  to 
be  the  one  purpose  and  ambition  of  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    XII 

A   BIT   OF  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

"  YOU'VE  told  me  so  much  about  yourself,"  said  Snar- 
ly Moll,  "  that  I'll  tell  you,  now,  all  /  know  about  my- 
self" 

And  so  she  began  to  lay  before  Milly  a  sketch  of  her 
life  —  if  such  vegetation  as  hers  could  be  called  a 
"  life." 

"  I  don't  know  where  I  was  born,  nor  nothin'  about  it. 
I  s'pose  'twas  somewheres,  though,  or  I'd  never  been  here. 
Folks  never  told  me  any  thing,  and  so  what  I  know  I've 
had  to  guess.  There  was  no  use  o'  my  guessin'  I  had 
red  hair,  though,  or  a  freckled  face." 

Milly  caught  herself  inadvertently  looking  in  her  face. 

"  Ain't  it  freckled  ?  "  said  Moll.  "  Ain't  my  hair  red  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  any  thing  redder  ?  " 

Milly  laughed,  and  told  her  that  she  had. 

"  What  was  it,  now  ?  Come,  you  shall  tell  me, 
now ! " 

The  child  hesitated,  and  at  last  answered,  "  Brick." 

"  Brick  ?  "  said  Moll.  "  What's  iliat  ?  I  never  see 
none  o'  that !  " 

"  They  make  houses  of  them  in  the  city,"  answered 
Milly. 

"  Yes,  and  them  same  houses  I'll  see  with  these  very 
eyes,  too,  some  day !  I'll  see  how  folks  live  and  look 
for  myself!  I  don't  mean  to  be  kept  out  o'  the  world 
no  longer ;  and  if  I  was  in  your  place,  /wouldn't,  neith- 

(92) 


A    BIT    OF    AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  93 

er.  But  this  ain't  gettin'  on  much  with  my  story.  The 
first  I  ever  knew  o'  myself,  or  who  I  was,  or  who  I  be- 
longed to,  was  when  I  was  up  in  the  town  o'  Derby. 
That's  a  good  many  miles  away  from  here,  and  p'raps 
you  don't  know  where  'tis.  But  let  me  tell  you,  now, 
Derby's  no  fool  of  a  place.  And  it's  got  a  poorhouse  a 
leetle  ahead,  even,  o'  this;  and  this  you  don't  come 
across  in  every  holler  you  stumble  into,  nuther. 

"  They  use'  to  give  us  ruther  tougher  times  at  the  Der- 
by poorhouse  than  what  we  git  here.  There,  the  woman 
was  the  man  o'  the  house  ;  here,  it's  jest  the  other  way. 
We  had  a  queerer  set  o'  boarders  there  than  what 
we've  got  here  ;  a  good  many  crazy  ones,  —  a  good  deal 
crazier  than  Jane,  — and  a  couple  o'  fools,  too." 

"  Fools  !  "  exclaimed  Milly. 

"  Yes,  real  idiots  !    Didn't  you  never  see  one  ?  " 

Milly  told  her  that  she  never  did. 

"  One  of  'em  was  a  woman,  and  the  other  a  boy ;  and 
they  use'  to  draw  more  folks  to  the  house  —  strangers, 
you  know  —  than  all  the  rest  of  us  together.  One  o' 
the  crazy  men  had  to  be  shet  up,  night  and  day,  in  a 
cage,  up  in  the  garret ;  and  I  use'  to  hear  him  howl 
sometimes  all  night,  so't  nobody  in  the  house  could 
sleep.  We  all  called  him  Van.  I  never  heerd  sich  a 
howl  from  a  human  bein'  in  all  my  life. 

"  Don't  try  to  tell  me  nothin'  about  the  poorhouse  life  ; 
I  know  all  about  it.  I've  lived  in  three  poorhouses 
a'ready,  and  I'm  thinkin'  this'll  be  the  last  one. 
Shouldn't  you  like  to  get  away  ?  Do  you  like  to  stay 
in  sich  an  awful  place  as  this  ?  and  you  had  a  mother, 
too,  and  rich  relations,  which  /never  had  ?  " 

Milly  signified  that  she  was  exceedingly  unhappy 
here.  She  could  not  say  more,  then ;  and  if  she  had 
been  able,  she  would  have  lacked  the  courage. 


94  DOVECOTE. 

"  Wai,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Moll,  in  reply,  "  when 
I  git  myself  safe  off  to  the  city,  I'll  have  you  come. 
You  hain't  got  no  relations,  I  know ;  but  what  o'  that  ? 
Ftt  be  your  relations  ;  that  is,  if  you'll  promise  me  be- 
forehand that  you  won't  cry  !  I  can't  hear  you  cry,  and 
I  don't  b'lieve  any  body  else  can.  But  that's  not  jest 
to  the  point.  The  way  I  got  out  o'  the  Derby  poor- 
house  was  something  like  this.  There  was  a  woman 
that  come  to  the  place  one  day,  a  real  fine-dressed 
woman,  and  she  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  lady. 
She  seemed  to  think  I  was  a  objeck  of  pity ;  and  so 
pity  on  me  she  took.  She  got  the  woman  at  the  poor- 
house  to  give  me  away,  and  then  she  took  me  'home 
with  her. 

"  I  was  pleased,  at  first ;  but  it  soon  got  to  be  an  old 
story.  I  found  out  that  her  husband  didn't  do  right,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  and,  finally,  he  left  her  entirely. 
So  she  had  to  break  up  housekeepin',  and  went  off 
somewhere,  I  never  knew  where.  And  I  was  put  on 
to  another  town. 

"  I  didn't  like  that  poorhouse,  somehow,  as  well  as  I 
liked  the  'tother  one.  They  didn't  have  such  a  set  of 
crazy  folks  and  fools,  to  be  sure  ;  but  I'd  ruther  put  up 
with  them  than  with  a  good  many  tilings  I  had  to.  The 
woman  was  savage  as  a  beast.  I  was  as  afraid  of  her 
as  I  could  live.  She  never  stopped  to  tell  a  body  when 
she  was  goin'  to  whip  'em,  but  put  on,  full  vengeance. 

"  I  remember  how  I  had  to  ketch  it,  one  day,  jest  be- 
cause I'd  gone  and  got  the  bottom  o'  my  dress  so  wet, 
a-cowsloppin'.  I'd  been  down  across  the  medder,  and 
I  thought  as  how  as  if  I  did  git  wet  a  little  mite,  she 
wouldn't  care,  as  long's  she  got  the  cowslops  fresh  and 
good  for  dinner.  But  I  was  mistaken,  for  once  in  my 
life,  if  I  never  was  before.  I  was  standing  there  in  the 


A    BIT    OF    AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  95 

kitchen,  holding  my  greens  in  my  hand,  and  the  very 
first  thing  I  knew  o'  Miss  Wetherby's  bein'  about,  she 
ketched  me  right  here  by  the  hair  of  my  head,"  —  Moll 
here  explained  to  Milly  how  the  thing  was  done, — 
"  and  whirled  me  round  and  round>4!and  all  the  time 
backwards,  to  the  door !  '  I'll  teach  ye ! "  says  she. 
'  I'll  teach  ye  to  go  off  into  the  wet  grass  and  spile  the 
good  clothes  I  put  on  ye  !  Next  time  ye  run  off  you'll 
tell  me  ! '  And  so  she  kept  a  pullin'  and  haulin'  me 
round  for  ever  so  long. 

"  That  was  more'n  what  my  blood  was  goin'  to  let  me 
stand.  I  didn't  do  nothin',  then.  I  didn't  say  nothin'. 
I  jest  grit  my  teeth ;  and  the  water  was  standin'  in  my 
eyes  all  the  time,  too,  she'd  pulled  my  hair  so  hard  !  I 
reckon  she  wanted  to  pull  it  all  up  by  the  roots.  So 
when  it  come  along  night,  thinks  I  to  myself,  thinks  I, 
'  Moll,  now's  your  time  !  If  ever  you're  goin'  away  from 
this  awful  place,  now's  your  best  time !  Perhaps 
it'll  be  your  last  chance  ! '  And  away  I  did  go,  certain 
enough. 

"  It  was  a  dark  night,  but  I  found  the  way  from 
where  I  slept  to  the  outside  door,  and  that's  all  I  want- 
ed. I  didn't  tell  nobody  of  my  plan,  and  didn't  ask  no- 
body's advice.  I  did  it  all  on  my  own  account.  All 
that  night  I  walked.  Every  house  I  come  to,  the  next 
day,  I  stopped  and  begged  for  somethin'  to  eat ;  and  in 
some  places  I  asked  the  people  if  they  wanted  to  hire 
a  girl  for  help.  They  would  look  down  at  me,  as  if 
they  wondered  what  such  a  little  one  as  me  was  worth, 
for  work;  and  then  they'd  shake  their  heads,  doleful 
like,  and  say  they  didn't  want  no  help.  But  they  all 
stared  at  me  so  strange,  as  if  they  thought  I  must  be  a 
runaway  from  somebody.  And  so  I  went  on,  and  the 
most  that  troubled  me  was,  that  somebody'd  be  after 


96  DOVECOTE. 

me  and  carry  me  back  where  I  come  from.  But  they 
didn't 

"  I  got  into  Byeboro',  b/m  by ;  and  here  I've  been 
ever  sence.  The  seleckmen  tried  to  make  me  tell 
where  I  come  from ;  but  I  never'd  tell.  I'd  no  notion 
o'  bein'  sent  back  to  Miss  Wetherby's,  and  gettin'  my 
hair,  every  spear  on't,  pulled  out  o'  my  head ;  for  it's 
jest  as  good  to  me  as  other  folks'  hair  is  to  them,  if  'tis 
red.  I  can't  help  the  color,  you  know  !  " 

Milly  seemed  deeply  interested,  both  in  the  narration 
of  Snarly  Moll  and  in  the  manner  in  which  she  went 
through  with  it ;  and  when,  an  hour  after,  they  together 
rose  from  their  seat  on  the  log,  they  appeared  the  best 
of  living  friends.  The  mildness  of  Milly  had  complete- 
ly won  over  the  other  one's  heart 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

IN  AND  OUT. 

ADAM  DROWNE,  in  his  wanderings,  had  got  back  to 
the  Byeboro'  poorhouse  again. 

He  found  Milly  by  the  river,  whither  he  had  gone  in 
quest  of  her,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  break  to  her  his 
purpose. 

"  I've  got  back  again,"  said  he,  his  blue  eyes  spar- 
kling. 

There  he  stood,  indeed,  with  the  same  indented  hat 
on  his  white  head,  and  the  same  darned  coat  on  his 
back. 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  of  you,"  said  he,  "  ever  since  I've 
been  gone.  I  told  you,  you  know,  that  this  wasn't  the 
place  for  you." 

"  But  I've  no  better  one  to  go  to,"  protested  Milly. 

"  You  mayn't  know  that ;  nor  I  mayn't  know  it, 
neither.  Perhaps  there's  some  sort  of  a  place  to  be 
found.  What  do  you  think,  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  child. 

"  No,  I  know  you  don't.  But  that  ain't  it.  What  we 
want,  now,  is  to  find  it ;  and,  what's  more,  I  think  I 
can  !  " 

Milly's  eyes  lighted  up  immediately.  A  new  ex- 
pression, more  pleasant  than  any  she  had  worn  since 
she  had  been  confined  there,  broke  out  over  her  coun- 
tenance like  sunshine.  Adam  Drowne  read  the  mean- 
ing of  it  all  at  a  single  glance. 


98  DOVECOTE. 

"  Should  you  like  to  go  away  from  here  ? "  he  asked. 

"  If  I  knew  where  to  go,"  answered  Milly. 

"  But  if  I  should  take  you  to  a  good  place,"  pursued 
Adam,  "  would  you  then  1 " 

"  I  would  like  to  go  away  from  here,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  you  shall!  There's  no  more  to  be  said.  I'll 
go  off  with  you  myself.  I'll  take  you  where  111  find 
some  kind  friends  for  you." 

"  Have  you  got  any  friends  ? "  innocently  inquired 
Milly. 

"  Umph !  They're  all  dead,  long  ago !  But  I  can 
find  'em  a  plenty  for  you.  Will  you  go  with  me  ?  Will 
you  "go  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  wliere." 

"  Wliere?  why,  where  /go." 

"  But  you  havn't  got  any  friends.  They're  all  dead. 
Then  where  will  you  go  ? " 

"  Milly,"  said  Adam,  lowering  his  voice,  "  look  here." 

The  child  gave  him  her  undivided  attention.  He  had 
succeeded  in  enlisting  her  interest  completely. 

"  When  I  go  from  here,  nobody  knows  where  I  go  to, 
of  course.  I  wander,  and  that's  all  any  body  knows 
about  it.  I  go  into  houses  that  nobody"  d  believe  me,  if 
I  told  'em.  There's  some  pretty  fine  houses,  too,  that  I 
stop  at  and  get  my  breakfast,  or  my  dinner,  or  my  sup- 
per, or,  mayhap,  sleep  in  all  night.  Nobody  thinks  of 
turning  me  off,  and  I  never  have  to  ask  a  favor  of  any. 
If  it's  meal  time,  or  if  it  ain't  meal  time,  as  soon  as  I 
go  through  their  doors,  they  say  to  me,  '  In  a  minute, 
Adam,  as  soon  as  we  can  get  the  table  set  for  you  ! ' 
and  so  I  wait  for  'em  to  get  me  what  they  have  to  eat, 
and  set  up  to  the  table  and  eat  it.  There  ain't  no  ques- 
tions asked  at  all.  I  have  my  meals  to  myself.  And 
then,  when  I  get  through,  I  set  a  while  and  rest  me,  and 
go  on  again." 


IN    AND    OUT.  99 

"  But  people  would  ask  questions,"  said  Milly,  "if  / 
was  with  you." 

"  Would  they  ? "  returned  Adam,  a  little  confused, 
"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  They  would  wonder  who  the  little  girl  with  you 
was." 

Adam's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face,  and  they 
sparkled  strangely  enough.  Perhaps  he  had  not  ex- 
pected to  find  her  so  astute  an  objector. 

"  But  they  wouldn't  know"  said  he. 

"  Wouldn't  they  ask  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  then  ? " 

"  You  would  have  to  tell  them." 

"  No,  I  shouldn't.     Why  should  I  ? 

"  You  would  have  to  !  What  should  you  say,  if  you 
didn't?" 

"  Say  nothing." 

Milly  smiled. 

"  Get  up  and  walk  out  doors." 

She  suddenly  became  very  sober  in  her  look. 

"And  never  go  into  that  house  again !  "  added  Adam, 
with  much  earnestness  in  his  tone. 

"  But  if  the  people  should  tell  Mr.  Flox  of  it  ? "  again 
suggested  Milly. 

"  How'll  they  ever  see  Mr.  Flox,  now  ?  Nobody 
knows  him  where  /go." 

"  If  he  should  follow  after  me  ?  "  said  Milly. 

"  He'll  never  do  that,  dear !  he'll  never  do  that !  He'll 
be  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  you.  He'll  make  so  much  the 
more  for  losing  you." 

Milly  was  very  thoughtful. 

"  I'll  warrant  you,"  said  Adam,  "  that  he  will  give  you 
away  the  first  chance  he  has.  The  first  person  that 
comes  here  and  takes  a  fancy  to  you,  he'll  give  you  to ; 


100  DOVECOTE. 

and  then  you'll  go,  you  don't  know  where.  You'd  much 
better  take  your  chance  with  me,  and  you  may  be  pretty 
sure  that  you  wouldn't  get  any  worse  place  than  it  is 
here,  or  where  Mr.  Flox  might  send  you.  Come,  what 
do  you  say  ?  We'll  go  at  once ! " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Milly. 

"  Poh !  poh !  "  said  Adam.  "  When  there's  nothing 
at  all  to  be  afraid  of!  Mr.  Flox'll  never  come  after  you, 
and  I'll  take  care  that  he'll  never  hear  of  you  again." 

Yet  there  was  something  fearful  to  the  child  in  the 
very  thought  of  changing  her  home,  though  the  change 
was  to  be  all  in  her  own  favor.  The  reality  that  was 
then  and  there  about  her  she  well  understood.  She 
could  comprehend  it  all,  in  its  length  and  breadth.  But 
the  future  was  untried.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  it 
might  have  in  store  for  her.  Even  had  it  all  been 
sketched  out  to  her  vision,  she  would  instinctively  have 
shrunk  from  contemplating  it,  for  it  was  something  whose 
reality  she  could  not  yet  grasp  and  comprehend. 

"  Do  you  hesitate  now  ?  "  he  pursued.  "  You  know 
that  I  don't  think  this  is  such  a  place  as  you  ought  to 
live  in,  and  I  never  did  think  so.  You  must  go  away 
from  hero.  I  can  get  you  as  good  a  place  to  live  in  as 
you  ever  will  get,  I'll  promise ;  and  then,  if  you  don't 
happen  to  be  contented,  why,  I'll  try  it  again.  Will 
you  go  with  me  ? " 

She  hardly  knew  at  first  what  to  say.  She  cast  her 
eyes  thoughtfully  on  the  ground,  and  for  a  long  tune 
kept  them  there. 

Adam,  however,  had  no  thought  of  losing  the  advan- 
tage he  had  apparently  gained  thus  far ;  so  he  continued 
talking  to  her  while  she  pondered  on  the  project,  telling 
her  of  the  new  friends  she  would  have,  and  the  new 
places  she  would  see,  and  the  new  feelings  she  would 


IN    AND    OUT.  101 

enjoy.  If  Adam  Drowne  was  never  earnest  about  any 
thing  before,  he  was  certainly  earnest  about  this.  Mil- 
ly's  welfare  had  become  an  object  of  the  deepest  inter- 
est to  him.  He  seemed  to  see  some  secret  in  her  life 
that  another  would  have  failed  to  see.  One  would 
naturally  have  thought  that  there  must  be  some  pecu- 
liar reason  for  his  attachment  to  her,  and  she  a  mere 
child. 

He  carried  his  point,  however,  at  last.  Milly  prom- 
ised him  that  she  would  leave  that  place,  and  with  him. 
He  enjoined  the  strictest  secrecy  and  silence  on  her, 
and  they  separated,  Adam  not  wishing  to  be  seen  talk- 
ing with  her  by  any  of  the  rest  of  the  household. 

The  second  night  after  this,  all  things  being  ready, 
when  the  house  was  hushed  in  slumber,  Adam  softly 
stole  along  the  entries  until  he  reached  the  room  where 
Milly  with  the  others  slept,  and  slowly  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in.  The  moonlight  was  streaming  pleasantly 
through  the  windows,  and  lay  in  silver  whiteness  across 
the  hard  oak  floor.  He  caught  the  deep  breathing  of 
the  sleepers,  all  of  them  passed  from  their  daily  misery 
into  a  state  of  blessed  forgetfulness. 

Stepping  stealthily  along  a-tiptoe,  he  found  the  little 
bed  where  the  child  lay,  and,  leaning  down  over  her, 
saw  by  the  reflected  light  of  the  moon  that  she  was 
asleep.  He  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  think- 
ing to  waken  her  easily.  But  she  was  buried  in  a  deep 
sleep.  Poor  child !  the  troublesome  and  saddening 
thoughts  of  each  day  made  her  sleep  as  sound  almost  as 
the  sleep  of  death. 

Finding  that  this  gentle  means  did  not  rouse  her,  he 

resorted  to  more  earnest  ones,  and  took  hold  of  both 

her  shoulders,  lifting  her  up  in  the  bed.     The  name 

"  Mother  "  was  faintly  whispered  from  her  lips.     Adam 

9* 


102  DOVECOTE. 

Browne's  heart  beat  quicker,  and  his  impulse  to  rescue 
her  became  suddenly  stronger  and  greater  than  ever. 

Milly  awoke  after  a  little  shaking,  and  gazed  wildly 
about  her. 

"  It's  me,  Milly,"  said  Adam.  "  It's  only  me  !  Come, 
dress  yourself  as  softly  as  you  can,  and  let's  be  gone ! 
Come,  I  will  wait  for  you  in  the  entry." 

It  took  but  a  minute  or  two  for  the  child  to  go  through 
with  the  task  of  clothing  herself  for  her  journey,  and  she 
stood  by  the  side  of  her  newly-found  friend. 

"Are  you  all  ready  ? "  asked  Adam. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Milly. 

And  he  led  her  softly  out  through  the  door  that  he 
had  unfastened. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  JOURNEY  BEGUN. 

ROUND  and  red  the  great  bright  moon  hung  in  the 
sky,  as  they  issued  forth  from  the  door  of  the  Bye- 
boro'  poorhouse,  offering  to  light  this  oddly-matched  pan- 
on  their  journey.  The  branches  of  the  trees,  the  boughs, 
the  leaves,  and  even  the  lighter  sprays  were  pencilled 
delicately  upon  the  ground,  and  the  poorhouse  itself 
cast  a  long  black  shadow  behind  it  in  the  edge  of  the 
meadow. 

The  frogs  were  to  be  heard  faintly  whirring  at  the 
distant  marshes  and  pools,  and  crickets  had  just  begun 
to  make  their  cry  heard  all  the  night  long  in  the  grass. 
They  passed  across  the  chip  yard  quietly,  and  by  the 
dilapidated  corn  crib,  under  which  the  pigs  slept  and 
the  few  fowls  roosted,  and  had  finally  crossed  the  Little 
bridge  of  flat  stones  that  gave  them  a  dry  passage  over 
the  brook  that  babbled  its  story  through  the  still  night 
watches,  and  then  Milly  cast  a  quick  glance  behind  her, 
and  drew  a  deeper  breath,  as  if  she  felt  safe.  Well- 
might  the  child  have  thought  that  she  was  escaping 
from  the  jaws  of  a  creature  more  hungry  and  cruel  than 
Want  merely  —  the  relentless  jaws  of  the  poorhouse, 
where  paupers  were  sold  out  from  year  to  year  to 
the  man,  no  matter  whom,  who  would  keep  them  alive 
for  the  least  money ! 

Adam  did  not  seem  inclined  to  say  much  as  they 
went  on,  keeping  his  thoughts  quite  to  himself.  They 

(103) 


104  DOVECOTE. 

travelled  steadily  through  the  village  street,  whose 
white  houses  glistened  pleasantly  among  the  waving 
elms  and  shading  maples,  Milly  looking  about  her  and 
wondering.  When  they  started  from  the  poorhouse  it 
was  just  midnight,  and  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
they  had  made  a  distance  of  eight  miles.  This  was 
rapid  walking  for  Milly,  and  must  have  greatly  wearied 
her ;  but  her  spirits,  and  the  frequent  representations  of 
Adam,  served  to  keep  her  up.  If  any  thing  else  had 
been  needed,  there  was  the  fear  of  return  to  the  hands 
of  Caleb  Flox  again,  and  that  was  enough. 

Adam  had  thoughtfully  provided  food  enough,  of  a 
simple  kind,  to  supply  their  wants  until  they  should  be 
far  out  of  the  reach  of  Byeboro'.  It  was  his  intention 
to  keep  as  much  away  from  the  main  road  as  possible 
after  daylight,  while  for  the  night  he  had  no  fear. 
When  the  faint  rays  of  day  began  to  stream  up  from 
the  east,  they  had  toiled  to  the  summit  of  a  long  hill, 
from  which  they  commanded  a  dim  and  distant  view  of 
the  town  they  had  just  left.  On  this  hill  they  stopped 
a  while  to  rest. 

They  had  their  faces  turned  to  the  east.  After  the 
gray  light  had  begun  to  steal  up  over  the  edge  of  the 
sky,  driving  back  the  legions  of  gloomy  shadows  that 
had  held  possession  of  the  field  of  the  heavens  all 
night,  then  came  dancing  and  flickering  along  brighter 
colors,  not  yet  tints,  but  foreshadowings  of  the  tints. 
And  next  the  veriest  shades  of  tints  themselves,  now 
shooting  and  spouting  up  like  flames  from  some  vast 
crater  below,  and  now  melting  and  blending  all  over 
and"  into  the  face  of  the  heavens. 

And  then  the  colors  flamed  up,  some  with  the  glow 
of  orange,  and  some  of  copper,  and  some  of  crimson, 
and  of  purple,  and  of  red.  And  now  the  fires,  flaming 


A    JOURNEY    BEGUN.  105 

like  waving  flambeaux ;  bright,  and  dazzling,  and 
golden ;  leaping  and  writhing  upwards,  as  if  they 
would  reach  the  very  zenith  and  burn  out  the  shadows 
that  still  lingered  there  ;  spreading  and  circling  on 
every  side ;  lighting  up  the  eastern  hills  till*  they  be- 
came ruddy  in  the  brightness.  It  was  a  splendid  pic- 
ture, the  whole  of  it.  Adam  and  Milly  both  stood  mute 
before  it,  and  one  might  have  taken  them  for  the  true 
"  fire  worshippers." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  thing  like  that  before  ? " 
asked  Adam. 

Milly  only  shook  her  head.  Her  heart  was  full  of 
what  she  had  seen. 

Just  then  the  great  globe  of  fire  itself  bounded  up 
from  behind  the  hills,  and  the  earth  and  sky  were  light- 
ed with  srmles.  The  sun  gilded  the  fleecy  fogs  that 
were  creeping  up  the  hillsides ;  and  made  molten  gold 
of  the  little  streams  that  wound  along  so  quietly  about 
their  feet ;  and  tipped  the  tree  tops  with  a  wealth  of 
colors ;  and  made  bright  carpets  of  the  distant  farms, 
their  patches,  and  figures,  and  squares  all  woven  togeth- 
er as  in  a  loom  ;  and  tinged  anew  the  dull  clouds  that 
were  drifting  over  the  heavens,  till  they  looked  like  gay 
argosies,  freighted  with  the  wealth  of  which  they  had 
been  in  quest. 

Milly  stood  and  admired,  and  wondered ;  and  all  the 
time  she  was  mute. 

"  Let's  eat  our  breakfast  now,"  broke  in  Adam  ;  and 
the  whole  charm  that  the  silence  had  helped  create  was 
immediately  broken. 

They  sat  down  upon  a  log  that  was  lying  across  the 
edge  of  the  hill,  where  a  woodman  had,  the  year  before, 
felled  a  huge  chestnut  tree,  and  Adam  proceeded  to  take 
the  frugal  meal  from  his  pocket,  —  it  was  carefully  fold- 


106  DOVECOTE. 

ed  in  a  piece  of  brown  paper,  —  and,  distributing  equal 
portions  of  it,  as  carefully  rolled  up  the  rest  in  the  paper 
again.  Then  they  fell  to.  Their  long  walk  had  served 
to  whet  their  appetites  sharply,  and  the  brilliancy  of  the 
new  morning,  fresh  with  its  airs  and  its  dews,  gave  the 
food  an  additional  relish. 

"  We  shall  walk  but  a  little  ways  this  forenoon,"  said 
Adam ;  "  so,  when  it  begins  to  come  on  hot,  we'll  rest 
somewhere.  Perhaps  you'll  feel  like  taking  a  little  nap 
by  that  time.  Are  you  tired  ? " 

"  Not  much,"  replied  Milly,  determined  to  be  a 
heroine. 

"  Not  much  !  "  laughed  Adam.  "  But  you  wiR  be, 
come  'leven  o'clock.  You'll  want  a  resting  spell  then. 
Leastways,  'twill  be  best  for  you.  I  take  one  myself, 
then,  sometimes,  when  I'm  travelling ;  ai*J  I  imagine 
your  little  feet'll  ache  by  that  time.  Don't  you  want 
me  to  carry  you  a  little  piece,  when  we  get  along  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  said  the  child,  astonished  at  such  a  proffer. 
"  I'm  sure  I  can  walk  myself !  And  you  were  so  good 
to  take  me  along  with  you,  too  !  O,  no  ;  I  can  walk  ! " 

"  Well,  so  be  it,  then.  Are  you  done  your  breakfast  ? 
Have  you  rested  long  enough  ?  The  sun's  getting  well 
up,  you  see." 

Milly  signified  that  she  was  both  well  rested  and 
quite  ready  for  commencing  the  journey  again.  And, 
taking  her  by  the  hand,  Adam  Drowne  struck  off  into 
the  road  again. 

He  said  little  to  her  as  they  went  along,  except  to 
answer  such  of  her  numerous  questions  as  he  chose  to 
answer,  but  kept  his  lips  mumbling  over  the  frag- 
mentary thoughts  or  fancies  that  entered  his  brain, 
Milly  looking  up  in  his  face,  now  and  then,  to  try  to 
learn  what  he  meant.  Sometimes  he  swung  his  disen- 


A    JOURNEY    BEGUN.  107 

gaged  hand  quite  furiously  to  and  fro,  and  then  his  lips 
worked  much  more  vigorously  than  ever  before,  and  his 
head  shook  this  way  and  that  with  great  emphasis. 
There  was  a  secret,  and  a  great  secret,  wrapped  up  in 
his  life,  and  even  a  child  like  Milly  was  led  to  make 
the  discovery. 

They  travelled  on  through  long  reaches  of  cool  forest 
border,  the  road  winding  on  through  the  pleasantest 
shades,  and  streaked  on  either  side  the  cart  track  with 
lines  of  thick  turf;  and  heard  the  sharp  cry  of  the  squir- 
rels on  the  walls,  or  among  the  boughs,  as  they  gam- 
bolled about,  in  the  middle  of  this  warm  summer  fore- 
noon ;  and  watched  the  glinting  of  the  little  brooks,  as 
they  stole  along  through  the  edge  of  the  woodland,  emer- 
ging pure  and  clear  from  the  dark,  boggy  places  that 
sought  to  dam  them  up,  and  then  slipping  away  into 
beds  of  cool,  green  moss,  and  so  down  into  the  secluded 
forest  silences. 

And  over  hot  roads  they  went,  too,  where  they  could 
see  the  summer  heat  rise  and  waver  above  the  dusty 
ground ;  and  where  the  flowers,  and  even  the  grass, 
seemed  panting  for  breath  by  the  baking  roadside  ;,  and 
where  were  no  brooks  that  had  not  long  ago  dried  up  in 
their  shallow  beds,  and  only  little  muddy  pools  offered 
the  sight  of  their  waters,  streaked  with  marl  and  clay. 
At  length  Milly  exclaimed  that  a  house  was  in  sight. 
Adam  had  been  looking  steadily  at  the  ground,  and  did 
not  see  it.  As  soon  as  she  gave  the  intelligence  to 
him,  he  said  that  they  would  go  round  to  the  barn,  and 
there  rest  themselves. 

"  But  I  had  rather  rest  myself  in  the  house,"  said 
Milly.  "  Only  see  how  cool  it  looks  all  round  it,  all 
that  green  grass  before  the  door,  and  those  trees  that 
are  so  shady,  too  !  Let's  go  to  the  house  !  " 


108  DOVECOTE. 

Adam  told  her  that  he  was  not  quite  sure  it  would  be 
safe. 

"  I  know  they  won't  hurt  you"  said  she.  "  They 
won't  ask  you  where  Jcame  from.  Come  ;  I'll  go  into 
the  house.  Was  you  ever  here  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Adam ;  "  and  that's  why  I  am  afraid." 

"  Then  I  ain't  afraid  a  bit,"  returned  she.  "  They'll 
think  I'm  your  girl ;  and  I'll  go  in.  I  won't  tell  them 
that  we  run  away  from  Byeboro'  poorhouse,  if  they  ask 
me." 

"  You  must  promise  me  certain,"  said  Adam.  "  You 
mustn't  talk  at  all.  Only  don't  talk  !  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  "  I'll  keep  my  words  so  close 
to  myself !  I'll  not  tell  them  a  thing  of  where  we  came 
from ! " 

And  after  the  delivery  of  a  few  more  injunctions  from 
Adam,  they  walked  on  in  the  direction  of  the  house. 

It  was  a  pleasant  place,  as  the  quick  eyes  of  the  child 
had  first  told  her.  The  carpet  of  grass  that  was  spread 
before  the  door  was  soft  looking- enough  to  roll  upon. 
The  maple  trees  thrust  their  boughs  and  leaves  quite 
up  to  the  windows.  A  sheep  was  grazing  upon  the- 
lawn,  keeping  the  grass  cropped  close  to  the  ground. 
There  were  no  blinds  upon  the  dwelling,  but  the  grate- 
ful shade  that  had  been  provided  with  such  tastefulness 
seemed  to  make  all  amends. 

They  crossed  the  grass  plot,  and  walked  round  to  the 
back  door.  It  was  shut.  Adam  knocked  loudly,  and 
afterwards  more  loudly,  with  his  fist ;  but  no  one  an- 
swered. For  several  minutes  he  kept  trying  to  raise 
some  one  of  the  inmates ;  but  none  came  to  the  door. 
They  had  apparently  all  gone  away. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AFOOT  AND  ALONE. 

"  THERE'S  nobody  here,"  said  Adam.  "  I  guess 
they've  all  gone.  Are  you  very  tired,  Milly  ?  " 

She  did  not  want  to  say  outright  that  she  was,  but 
her  looks  betrayed  the  true  state  of  the  case  sufficiently. 

"  We  must  have  a  little  sleep,"  said  he,  looking  at 
her.  "  I  see  how  'tis  ;  we  must  go  to  the  barn." 

And  he  conducted  the  little  wanderer  over  the  back 
of  a  gentle  knoll  to  a  brown  barn  that  was  nestled  in  the 
cosy  hollow  beyond.  They  entered  this,  and  climbed 
to  the  remnant  of  the  mow  upon  the  loft.  Carrying 
clean  and  sweet  hay  enough  to  one  spot  to  suffice  for  a 
comfortable  bed  and  pillow  for  Milly,  he  bade  her 
stretch  out  her  weary  limbs  on  this  rustic  couch,  while 
he  lay  in  an  opposite  corner  and  tried  to  fall  asleep. 
And  following  the  advice  given,  in  less  than  ten  min- 
utes she  was  sound  asleep.  And  Adam  followed  along 
but  a  short  time  after. 

It  was  something  to  arrest  the  attention  of  any  one 
who  might  have  looked  in  there  at  that  hour,  to  see  that 
child  of  innocence  and  misfortune  so  quietly  slumber- 
ing, perchance  dreaming,  on  that  coarse  bed  of  hay ; 
one  little  arm  placed  carefully  under  her  head,  and  the 
other  crossed  so  prettily  over  her  breast ;  her  lips  slight- 
ly parted,  and  a  pleasant  smile  still  lingering  about 
them ;  her  auburn  hair  tangled  about  her  shoulders,  the 
haystalks  intertwisted  with  their  silken  fibres  ;  and  that 
10  (109> 


110  DOVECOTE. 

sweet  look  of  innocence,  pure  as  the  expression  of  a 
seraph,  resting  so  lightly  on  her  countenance,  as  if  she 
feared  nothing,  hoped  for  all  things,  and  was  at  heart 
at  love  with  all  the  world.  It  was  a  sight  such  as  few 
see  in  this  every-day  life  in  which  they  go  through  the 
world ;  a  sort  of  dream  that  plays  with  their  waking 
thoughts  sometimes,  or  leads  them  on  to  a  new  exist- 
ence in  the  stillness  of  their  night  slumbers. 

For  quite  an  hour  they  slept.  Adam  was  the  first  to 
wake.  He  rose  from  his  bed,  and  walked  slowly  in  the 
direction  of  the  child. 

As  the  picture  greeted  him,  —  one  to  which  his  eyes 
were  little  accustomed,  —  he  stood  for  some  time  before 
it,  regarding  it  in  silence.  With  the  rapidity  of  thought 
he  went  back  again  to  his  days  of  childhood,  —  for  even 
a  man  with  as  white  a  head  as  Adam  Drowne  must 
have  had  a  childhood,  in  many  points,  just  like  this, — 
losing  himself  among  the  genial  and  sunny  memories 
of  that  former  time,  his  eyes  moistening  with  the  sights 
that  again  rose  and  swam  in  them  —  sights  of  green 
meadows,  with  boys  clapping  broad-brimmed  straw 
hats  over  butterflies  that  had  lit  on  the  clover  bells, 
and  of  lawns  where  children  trooped  to  the  light  and 
airy  tread  of  their  own  spirits,  and  of  pleasant  gardens 
full  of  blooming  flowers,  and  of  summer  mornings  pic- 
tured out  so  palpably  on  the  glowing  landscape,  and  of 
churches,  and  mothers,  and  home. 

All  these,  and  much  more  than  these,  filled  and  fired 
the  poor  wanderer's  fancies.  All  these  he  saw  in  the 
sweet  expression  that  was  as  radiant  as  some  rare 
vision  upon  the  countenance  of  the  sleeping  child.  His 
heart  laughed  again,  as  it  laughed  within  him  in  his 
fresh  boyhood,  when  he  caught  her  faint  but  luminous 
smile.  Again  his  brain  swam  with  fragments  of  the 


AFOOT    AND    ALONE.  Ill 

olden  feelings  that  just  draped  their  lowest  edges 
against  it  as  they  swept  across ;  and  he  grew  dreamy 
with  this  sudden  return  of  the  old-time  thoughts.  He 
was  falling  unconsciously  into  a  revery. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  child  awoke.  As  she 
opened  her  pleasant  eyes  they  stared  wildly  at  Adam, 
as  if  she  would  ask  him  by  a  single  look  who  he  was 
and  what  he  wanted.  It  was  some  little  time  before  he 
seemed  fully  to  recover  himself. 

"  Come,  are  you  rested  ? "  at  length  he  asked. 

Milly  sat  upright  on  the  hay,  and  now  began  to  rub 
her  eyes. 

"  Have  you  had  a  good  nap  ? "  he  pursued,  looking 
up  at  the  swallows  that  were  swarming  and  twittering 
about  the  window  of  the  old  barn. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Milly ;  "  but  I  feel  lame." 

"  I  expected  your  long  walk  would  make  you  a  little 
stiff  at  first,"  said  he  ;  "  but  you'll  soon  get  over  that  as 
you  begin  to  move  again.  We'll  start  on,  if  you're 
ready." 

Milly  moved  to  the  door  after  him,  and  they  went  out 
together.  This  time  they  did  not  go  to  the  house  where 
they  had  vainly  called  before,  but  took  a  circuitous  path 
through  the  meadows  and  a  piece  of  tanglewood,  and 
finally  emerged  upon  the  open  road  again  at  a  point 
where  it  forked,  and  where  Adam  hesitated. 

"  I  wonder  which  way  this  one  leads,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, and  pointing  in  the  direction  of  that  on  the  left 
hand.  "  I'm  sure  I  should  want  to  take  the  one  that 
would  carry  us  farthest  from  Byeboro'." 

"  And  so  should  I!  "  exclaimed  the  child,  whom  he 
had  not  suspected  of  listening  to  him.  "  Let's  get 
away  as  far  as  we  can  from  Byeboro' ! "  And  she 
tugged  stoutly  at  his  hand  towards  the  left-hand  road, 


112  DOVECOTE. 

which  was  sufficient,  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  to 
settle  the  question.  So  onward  they  trudged  by  the 
left-hand  road,  the  child  looking  inquisitively  forward 
and  backward  at  every  rod.  At  length  something 
appeared  in  sight. 

"  We'll  get  over  this  wall !  "  said  Adam. 

"  What  for  ? "  innocently  asked  Milly. 

"  Because  we  don't  know  yet  who  'tis,"  answered  he. 
"  Can  you  tell  ?  Can  you  see  ?  What  is  it  ?  Is  it  a 
man  afoot,  or  a  wagon  ?  " 

The  poor  man  was  moved  with  a  deep  excitement, 
which  bordered  so  closely  upon  fear  that  it  passed  the 
child's  comprehension. 

The  object  in  the  distance  began  now  to  come  nearer. 

"  I  can  see  it  now"  exclaimed  the  child.  "  It's  a  car- 
riage ;  and  there's  a  lady  in  it,  too." 

She  seemed  delighted  with  her  discovery. 

"  Yes,  and  there's  a  man  with  her,"  he  immediately 
added,  straining  his  vision. 

"  Yes,"  said  Milly,  "  a  gentleman  and  a  lady." 

"  I  wonder  who  they  be  !  "  exclaimed  Adam.  "  Why 
not  get  over  the  wall,  Milly,  till  they  get  by  ?  " 

"  Will  they  touch  us  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  Will  they 
take  me  away  from  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Adam.  "  I'm  afraid.  I  don't 
know  what  may  happen." 

Milly  half  stopped,  and  clung  closer  to  her  companion 
and  protector. 

"  I  hope  they  won't  stop  us,"  said  she,  tremulously. 

"  It's  too  late  now,"  said  Adam,  "  We  can't  hide 
now.  They're  too  close  to  us.  They  see  us.  Let's 
walk  on  as  if  nothing  was  the  matter." 

And  so  Milly  determined  to  walk,  still  clinging  to  his 
hand. 


AFOOT    AND    ALONE.  113 

The  carriage  drew  near.  It  came  up  before  them. 
It  was  now  close  upon  them.  It  stopped  ! 

Adam  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  as  did  Milly  like- 
wise. He  would  keep  straight  on ;  but  that  would  be 
the  very  means  of  arousing  suspicion  that  all  was  not 
right  with  him.  He  would  stand  perfectly  still,  waiting 
to  hear  what  the  travellers  might  have  to  say ;  but  that 
was  just  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  do. 

The  gentleman  in  the  carriage  relieved  him  by  ask- 
ing.— 

"  Which  way  do  you  come  from,  this  morning  ? " 

Adam  impulsively  pointed  over  his  shoulder,  without 
answering  a  word. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to  Milton  ?  "  pursued 
the  gentleman. 

Adam  did  not  know  a  bit  about  it ;  but  he  was  ready 
with  an  answer. 

"  About  twelve  miles,  I  should  think,  sir." 

"  A  straight  road  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  near  straight  as  can  be." 

"  Isn't  there  a  stopping-place  on  beyond  here  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  know  of,  sir,  short  of  Milton,"  said 
Adam. 

The  gentleman  was  about  gathering  up  the  reins 
tightly  in  his  hands  again,  preparatory  to  driving  on, 
when  the  lady  at  his  side  asked  Milly  how  far  she  had 
walked,  for  she  looked  very  tired. 

"  Only  a  few  miles,"  answered  Adam  for  her,  while 
she  hung  down  her  head. 

'  And  hasn't  many  more  to  walk,  I  hope,"  added  the 
lady,  regarding  her  with  unaffected  sympathy. 

"  No,  ma'am ;  I  think  'twon't  be  a  very  long  time  now 
before  we  get  to  our  stopping-place  ; "  and  Adam  made 
10* 


114  DOVECOTE. 

a  forward  movement  that  betrayed  his  fear  and  impa- 
tience. 

"  Twelve  miles  to  Milton,  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  gen- 
tleman again,  his  horse  beginning  to  move. 

"  About  that,  I  should  think,  sir,"  replied  Adam,  start- 
ing on. 

And  they  parted. 

Milly  looked  behind  her  many  times,  after  the  car- 
riage had  passed  out  of  sight,  fearful  that  it  might 
return  for  her;  and  then,  as  she  finally  threw  up  her 
eyes  so  gratefully  to  her  companion,  her  cheeks  were 
burning  with  color,  and  a  profuse  perspiration  stood  all 
over  her  forehead  and  temples. 

A  walk  through  a  piece  of  wood,  to  which  they  for- 
tunately came  next,  was  much  needed  to  cool  the  fever 
of  her  blood,  and  quiet  the  deep  agitation  of  her  feel- 
ings. She  felt  —  and  Adam  felt  hardly  less  so  —  that 
she  had  narrowly  escaped ;  though  from  what  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  either  one  to  tell. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

BEWILDERMENT. 

SOME  time  in  the  afternoon,  they  came  to  a  house  at 
which  the  cravings  of  hunger  finally  compelled  Adam 
to  stop. 

It  was  a  low-roofed  building,  of  but  a  single  story, 
and  painted  red.  The  very  color  of  it  made  Milly 
shudder ;  for  red  happened  to  be  the  color  of  the  Bye- 
boro'  poorhouse.  Adam  advanced  to  the  door  with  a 
courageous  manner,  and  was  about  to  knock  against  the 
wall,  the  door  being  open,  when  a  woman  presented 
herself.  She  was  old  in  her  looks,  with  sparse,  gray 
hair  and  large  eyes.  There  were  crows'  feet  about  her 
temples,  and  her  hands  were  shrivelled  and  dried  like 
vellum.  She  stood  waiting  for  Adam  to  prefer  his 
request. 

"  We're  nothing  but  travellers,"  said  he,  "  and  want 
something  to  eat.  We've  nothing  to  pay  with  but 
thanks ;  and  of  them  you  shall  have  a  plenty.  If  you'll 
only  feed  us  with  a  crust,  or  a  bone,  or  any  thing  you 
feel  willing  to  give  away,  you  shall  always  be  remem- 
bered." 

The  plea  was  well  put,  and  should  have  at  once 
reached  the  woman's  sympathies. 

"  So  you've  got  no  money,  hey  ?  "  she  inquired,  star- 
ing at  Milly.  "  Then  how  happens  it  that  you're  travel- 
ling ?  Folks  don't  generally  travel  till  they  put  some- 

("5) 


116  DOVECOTE. 

thing  to  pay  their  way  into  their  pockets.  You  don't 
belong  round  here,  I  guess." 

"  If  you'll  only  give  us  something  to  eat ! "  prayed 
Adam,  wishing  to  break  in  upon  her  inquisitiveness. 
"  We're  half  starved  ! " 

"  Sartain !  sartain ! "  said  she,  and  immediately  began 
to  put  some  brown  bread  and  milk  upon  the  table. 

"  You  love  milk,  deary,  don't  ye  ? "  she  asked  Milly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  the  child. 

"  Yes ;  she  loves  bread  and  milk,"  chimed  in  Adam, 
wishing  to  keep  the  woman  from  interrogating  Milly ; 
"  and  so  do  I ! " 

"  Then  jest  set  down  there,"  said  she. 

And  they  drew  up  to  a  low  table  of  oak,  with  heavy, 
carved  legs,  and  a  surface  as  smooth,  and  hard,  and 
white  as  oak  could  by  rubbing  and  scrubbing  be  made. 

The  repast  was  relished  exceedingly  by  both  of 
them ;  as,  indeed,  so  long  a  journey  and  such  long  fast- 
ing would  be  likely  to  make  it  much  relished.  They 
sat  for  some  time  after  they  had  finished,  Adam  think- 
ing it  a  good  place  to  rest  himself. 

"  Where  does  this  road  lead  me  to  ? "  he  at  length 
inquired. 

"  Then  you  air  a  stranger  in  these  parts  ! "  exclaimed 
the  woman.  "  Wai,  and  so  I  thought  you  was.  This 
road  leads  you  to  the  river,  if  you  follow  it  long 
enough." 

Milly  looked  at  Adam  for  an  explanation. 

"  To  the  river  ?  "  said  he.     "  What  river  ? " 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  But  you're  a  stranger  here ! 
Why,  to  the  river  where  the  boats  come  up  —  to  the 
Hudson.  It's  a  great  river,  and  not  a  great  many  miles 
away  from  here,  either." 

"  Is  there  a  village  there  ?  "  asked  Adam. 


BEWILDERMENT.  117 

"  Sartain.    Where  should  there  be  one,  if  not  there  ? " 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

"  Where  are  you  goin'  with  that  gal  ? "  she  recom- 
menced. "  It's  a  long  ways  for  her  to  the  river." 

Adam  did  not  vouchsafe  a  reply. 

"  Deary,"  pursued  the  woman,  addressing  Milly, 
"  where  did  you  come  from  ?  You're  a  purty  thing, 
now,  and  I'm  thinkin'  it's  a  shame  to  keep  you  walkin' 
so.  Where  did  you  come  from,  deary  ? " 

"  She  came  from  a  good  ways  off,"  interposed  he. 

"  Is  she  yours,  then  ? " 

Adam  hesitated,  looking  at  her  and  at  the  floor. 

"  She  ain't  yours,  and  any  body  can  see  that  for 
themselves.  Where  did  you  get  her,  now?  Where 
be  you  goin'  to  carry  her  to  ?  " 

"  Come,"  said  Adam,  addressing  Milly,  and  himself 
rising  to  his  feet.  "  We'd  better  be  going." 

"  You  had,  ef  you're  thinkin'  o'  gittin'  to  the  river  to- 
night" said  the  woman.  "  But  it's  too  bad  to  carry  that 
poor  child  round  in  that  sort  of  a  way !  It's  too  much 
for  her ! " 

Adam  led  her  out  at  the  door. 

"  We're  very  much  obliged,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he 
found  himself  fairly  out  of  the  house.  "  God  bless  you 
for  your  kindness  ! " 

"  But  I'm  afraid  he  never  will  you,  ef  you  think  o' 
takin'  that  child  on  to  the  river  sich  a  hot  day  as  this  ! 
Why  not  leave  her  here  with  me,  and  go  on  alone  ? 
I'll  take  the  best  care  of  her." 

Milly  clung  closer  to  him,  as  if  even  then  she  feared 
she  might  be  taken  away. 

"  O,  don't  want  to  stay,  eh  ? "  said  she,  seeing  the 
child's  symptoms  of  fear.  "  Well,  then,  go  on !  and  joy 
go  with  ye  both  !  I  hope  you  won't  brile  in  this  sun ; 
that's  all." 


118  DOVECOTE. 

And  the  poor  wanderer  pushed  on  down  into  the  road 
again,  Milly  confidingly  keeping  close  to  him  at  every 
step.  The  simple  attention  that  she  excited  from  every 
one  that  saw  her  was  what  served  to  keep  her  in  a  state 
of  constant  alarm.  She  would  have  had  it  otherwise, 
but  it  was  a  something  against  which  neither  herself 
nor  Adam  had  power  to  make  provision. 

The  remainder  of  that  afternoon  they  kept  on  then- 
way.  As  the  evening  began  to  fall,  the  long  shadows 
creeping  stealthily  up  over  the  heavens  as  the  red  sun 
went  down,  Adam  felt  puzzled  where  to  pass  the  night. 
If  it  should  be  at  a  house,  he  stood  in  danger  of  finally 
losing  the  child.  Every  motive  induced  him  not  to 
think  of  that.  He  had  intended,  it  is  true,  to  procure 
her  a  good  home  somewhere,  but  he  felt  that  he  was 
not  far  away  enough  from  Byeboro'  yet.  And  so  he 
kept  on. 

"  Shan't  I  carry  you  now  ?  "  he  would  frequently  ask 
the  child. 

"  I  am  not  tired ;  I  can  walk,"  was  her  invariable  and 
prompt  reply. 

After  dusk  they  came  to  the  wide  door  of  a  huge 
smithy,  where  great  fires  were  roaring  within,  and  sooty 
men  were  bringing  down  heavy  blows  upon  large  bars 
of  iron,  and  bright  sparks,  like  meteors,  were  flashing 
and  flying  this  way  and  that  from  under  the  heads  of 
the  hammers ;  and  there  by  the  door  for  a  long  time 
they  stood,  Adam  lost  in  the  roar  of  his  own  swift 
thoughts,  and  Milly  in  the  roar  of  the  great  bellows  that 
blew  the  fires. 

The  workmen  glanced  round  upon  them,  but  did  not 
stop  their  work.  Here  was  one  place  where  they  might 
stop  and  look  at  human  beings,  begrimed  and  black- 
ened though  they  were,  and  not  feel  afraid  of  questions. 


BEWILDERMENT.  119 

Up  the  wide  throats  of  the  narrow  chimneys  the  fires 
kept  flaming  as  the  bellows  lifted ;  and  the  bars  were 
white  with  heat  when  they  took  them  out  of  the  coals 
and  placed  them  across  the  anvils  ;  and  the  fiery  flakes 
flew  every  where  as  the  hammers  pounded  and  made 
their  crystal  ring.  There  was  something  extremely 
novel  to  the  child  in  the  dusky  place,  thus  peopled  with 
sooty  beings  that  looked  like  Vulcans,  and  in  the  bright 
fires,  and  the  rows  of  iron  shoes  that  hung  from  long 
poles  running  across  the  beams  overhead,  and  the  ring- 
ing of  the  hammers  upon  the  anvils.  She  found  her 
head  full  of  wonder,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  ask 
a  hundred  questions  at  once  ;  but  her  puny  voice  could 
no  more  have  been  heard  in  the  roar  of  that  place  than 
the  faint  pipings  of  a  sparrow  in  the  rush  of  a  storm. 
All  that  she  could  do,  therefore,  was  to  look  and  won- 
der. The  picture  of  the  old  Byeboro'  poorhouse  came 
up  to  her  again,  —  she  could  see  it  in  the  red  coals,  — 
and  her  heart  gratefully  acknowledged  the  contrast  be- 
tween Caleb  Flox  and  even  men  that  looked  like  these 
stalwart  and  smutty  smiths. 

She  looked  up  to  the  heavens.  The  stars  were  just 
peeping  out  on  the  field  of  the  summer  sky,  but  her 
eyes  saw  them  not.  The  glare  of  the  fires  within  had 
obscured  them  all.  Yet  the  breath  of  the  night  breeze 
drew  pleasantly  upon  her  cheeks  and  forehead,  and  re- 
freshed her. 

That  night  they  took  shelter  in  a  barn  again.  It  was 
no  new  thing,  now,  for  Milly,  and  she  slept  as  sweetly 
as  ever  in  her  little  bed.  Early  the  next  morning  they 
had  started  upon  their  journey,  Adam  being  determined 
to  reach  the  river  that  afternoon.  They  broke  the  wel- 
come bread  of  charity  once  more,  and  managed  to  se- 
cure enough  provisions  to  carry  them  through  the 


12U  DOVECOTE. 

day,  let  the  heat  of  midday  overtake  them  where  it 
would. 

They  lunched  at  noon  in  a  little  grove  that  capped  a 
knoll  by  a  creek,  and  relished  it  as  much  as  any  of  the 
many  frugal  meals  they  had  yet  taken.  Water  at  the 
spring  they  drank  by  getting  on  their  knees  and  half 
immersing  their  faces  in  it ;  and  it  certainly  refreshed 
them.  Just  at  night  again  they  had  come  to  the  river 
of  which  the  woman  in  the  low  red  house  had  told 
them.  It  was  very  wide,  and  many  vessels  were  to  be 
seen  drifting  on  its  bosom.  The  sight  of  it  astonished 
Milly,  who  was  prepared  for  no  sight  on  so  large  and 
grand  a  scale. 

Adam  tarried  about  the  place  until  eight  o'clock, 
learning  that  at  that  time  the  boats  would  come  up. 
He  had  an  undefined  purpose  in  his  mind  of  boarding 
the  first  one  that  landed,  and  going  where  it  might  carry 
him.  He  had  no  money ;  but  he  had  gone  so  far  through 
the  world  without  money,  and  he  did  not  see  why  he 
was  to  be  stopped  now. 

At  the  exact  time  the  leviathan  steamer  came  up, 
riding  like  a  world  in  itself  straight  to  the  dock.  Adam 
and  Milly  were  among  the  first  to  go  aboard,  she  hold- 
ing on  by  his  hand.  He  led  her  to  a  seat  among  some 
boxes,  and  told  her  to  sit  perfectly  quiet  till  he  came 
back  to  her  again ;  and  went  ashore.  The  thoughts  of 
a  demented  man  must  have  been  his,  for  he  had  no  er- 
rand on  shore  save  the  gratification  only  of  his  childish 
curiosity.  He  wanted  to  see  all,  to  hear  all,  and  to  be 
every  where  at  the  same  moment.  While  he  was 
straggling  about,  and  was  being  pushed  this  way  and 
that  in  the  crowd,  he  looked  up  at  the  stately  steamer 
to  admire  the  manner  in  which  she  was  pictured  against 
the  dark  sky.  He  saw  that  she  was  in  motion  ! 


BEWILDERMENT.  121 

He  gave  a  yell  and  a  shriek,  hurrying  to  find  the  plank 
by  which  he  had  come  down.  It  was  too  late.  It  was 
taken  in.  The  boat  was  ten  yards  from  the  quay  al- 
ready. Adam  was  dumb  with  fear  and  his  bewildering 
sensations. 

11 


CHAPTER   XVII 

A  QUIET  NOOK. 

Ir  was  just  about  sunset  when  a  wagon  drove  up 
through  the  ancient  avenue  to  Dovecote,  containing  a 
lady  and  a  little  girl.  The  day  had  been  extremely 
warm,  and  the  laborers  had  just  returned  weary  from 
the  fields,  their  waistcoats  dangling  from  their  arms. 
Some  of  the  younger  ones  ran  out  before  the  house,  to 
see  what  the  new  arrival  was  to  be  ;  and  at  once  there 
rose  a  childish  shout,  which  was  rapidly  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  telegraphically  announcing  that  Miss 
Nancy  had  come.  And  as  she  came  nearer,  we  could 
see  that  she  had  a  little  girl  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

The  child  was  Milly. 

Miss  Nancy  was  not  exactly  a  relative  of  ours,  but 
had  long  had  carte  blanche  of  our  parents  to  make  the 
place  her  home  while  it  might  be  agreeable  to  her  ;  all 
this  in  consideration,  firstly,  of  her  being  an  old  school- 
mate and  friend  of  my  mother's,  and,  secondly,  of  her 
having  one  of  the  sweetest  natures  any  where  discover- 
able. Her  real  name  was  Miss  Nancy  Gregory;  and 
she  was  now  returning  from  her  annual  visit  to  some  of 
her  old  friends  in  the  metropolis.  As  she  was  helped 
to  the  ground,  she  first  exclaimed,  — 
•  "  How  good  this  soft  turf  feels  again -to  the  feet !  " 
and  a  moment  afterwards,  — 

"  You  see  I've  brought  home  a  little  visitor." 

(122) 


A  QUI.ET  NOOK.  123 

We  alL  looked  in  astonishment,  the  younger  ones 
especially. 

"  Come,  Milly,"  said  Miss  Nancy,  offering  to  take  her 
from  the  wagon. 

"  What  is  her  name  ? "  asked  my  mother. 

"  Milly  —  a  pretty  name,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  A  very  pretty  name,"  said  my  aunt ;  "  and  a  very 
pretty  girl,  I  should  think,  too.  Bring  her  in  ! " 

Miss  Nancy  went  into  the  house,  leading  the  little 
stranger  by  the  hand,  the  rest  of  us  following  close 
behind,  and  staring. 

"  I  picked  up  a  little  friend  on  my  way  home,"  said 
Miss  Nancy,  "  and  thought  she  might  come  along  with 
me.  She  appeared  to  be  lost  and  friendless ;  and  so  I 
befriended  her.  She  appears  to  be  a  very  sweet  child. 
You  will  like  her,  I  know,"  said  she  to  my  mother,  "  if 
you  allow  her  to  stay." 

"  But  how  did  you  find  her  ?  "  inquired  my  mother. 
"  Where  did  so  little  a  thing  happen  to  come  in  your 
way?" 

"  I  picked  her  up  on  the  boat,  on  my  way  up  the 
river.  It  was  just  at  night." 

"  On  the  boat !  and  alone  !  "  exclaimed  my  mother,  in 
great  astonishment. 

"  Yes ;  I  found  her  wandering  about  the  cabin,  crying 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  I  took  her  by  the  hand, 
and  asked  her  what  was  the  matter.  She  said  she  had 
got  lost.  '  But  where  are  your  friends  ? '  I  asked.  She 
said  that  she  hadn't  any  living.  Her  mother  was  dead ; 
she  had  no  father ;  and  she  had  lost  her  way.  I  pitied 
her,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  go  home  with  me,  and 
told  her  all  about  the  place  where  I  lived.  She  mani- 
fested the  greatest  joy  immediately,  and  clung  to  me 
as  if  she  had  always  known  me." 


124  DOVECOTE. 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  murmured  both  my  mother  and  aunt 
together.  "  Poor  thing  ! " 

"  I  placed  her  in  a  berth  next  my  own  for  that  night, 
and  awoke  in  the  morning  to  find  her  much  improved 
in  spirits.  I  got  her  ready  to  leave  the  boat  as  soon  as 
she  landed,  and,  soon  after  our  early  breakfast,  took  her 
with  me  into  the  stage  for  pleasant  old  Dovecote,  in 
pleasant  Kirkwood.  Quite  a  little  adventure,  isn't  it?" 

It  was  agreed  that  it  was  really  what  Miss  Nancy 
was  pleased  to  call  it.  This  adoption  of  a  little  stran- 
ger like  Milly  into  our  home  nest  was  an  event  in  our 
childish  lives.  She  came  among  us  like  a  vision.  We 
had  been  least  thinking  of  such  an  occurrence ;  and  so 
it  took  us  all  the  more  with  surprise. 

For  a  long  time  my  mother  and  Miss  Nancy  sat  by 
themselves  talking  over  the  matter,  in  the  course  of 
which  conversation  all  the  secrets  that  Milly  had  hith- 
erto given  up  respecting  her  former  life  were  confided 
to  my  mother,  to  be  kept  sacredly  for  the  child.  They 
seemed  to  belong  to  her  as  much  as  her  clothing ;  and 
so  little  was  told  us,  at  the  time,  of  the  history  of  the 
little  unfortunate  who  had  finally  had  the  good  fortune 
to  drift  into  a  nook  as  quiet  as  ours. 

While  Miss  Nancy  and  my  mother  were  so  deeply 
engaged  in  their  talk,  and  my  aunt  was  busy  with  her 
preparations  for  supper,  such  as  baking  her  hot  biscuit, 
and  getting  out  the  honey,  and  pouring  out  the  milk  for 
those  of  us  who  loved  it,  we  children  were  intently 
occupied  with  Milly.  The  girls  had  carried  her  out  the 
door,  and  asked  her  name  several  times  apiece,  each 
time  telling  her  they  thought  it  a  very  pretty  name,  and 
had  shown  her  all  the  flowefbeds,  and  named  every 
variety  of  the  simple  flowers,  and  danced  her  up  and 
down  the  walks,  and  made  her  jump  on  the  green  turf 


A    QUIET    NOOK.  125 

to  feel  how  soft  it  was,  and  brought  her  round  to  the 
door  again.  It  was  a  great  novelty ;  and  we  all  meant 
to  enjoy  it  as  long  as  it  lasted. 

Milly  said  but  little,  only  admiring  the  trees,  and  the 
grass,  and  the  flowers  in  her  own  quiet  way,  her  eyes 
not  yet  quite  dry,  it  seemed  to  us,  from  her  recent  tears, 
and  the  smiles  upon  her  face  best  speaking  the  grate- 
fulness of  her  heart. 

"  O,  I  hope  you're  going  to  stay  here !  I  hope  you'll 
live  with  us  !  "  said  one  of  us. 

"  Mother'll  never  let  you  go  away  now,"  added  an- 
other. 

"  Where  would  you  go  to,  if  you  went  ? "  pursued  a 
third. 

"  No,  Miss  Nancy  will  keep  you,"  said  a  fourth. 
"  Miss  Nancy  brought  you  here,  and  you  are  her' girl." 

"  We  will  have  such  good  times  together ! "  said 
Nelly.  "  We  can  go  into  the  woods  and  get  the  flow- 
ers where  they  grow  wild,  and  run  in  the  meadows 
when  the  boys  go  fishing  in  the  little  river,  and  go  to 
school  together,  and  to  meeting,  and  have  such  good 
times  !  I  know  you'll  stay,  won't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  added  another ;  "  say  you  will.  We'll  have 
such  famous  times  here  now ! " 

"I  should  love  to,"  said  Milly.     "But  perhaps " 

"  O,  there  ain't  any  '  perhaps '  about  it !  No  such 
thing!" 

"  No,  no  ;  you  must  stay  ! " 

"  Can  you  be  contented  here  ?  Shan't  you  want  to 
go  and  see  your  old  friends  ? "  asked  Nell. 

"  I  haven't  any  friends  now,"  answered  Milly. 

"  No  mother,  either  1" 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

We  all  looked  at  her  in  deepest  pity.  Her  brief 
11* 


126  DOVECOTE. 

narrative,  conveyed  in  a  question  and  an  answer, 
touched  our  sympathies  till  they  infolded  her  deeply 
in  their  impulsive  embrace.  We  loved  the  child  much 
for  what  she  appeared  to  be ;  but  we  loved  her  for 
sympathy  with  her  sorrows  more. 

Supper  was  soon  announced,  and  we  were  all  called 
in.  As  we  ranged  ourselves  around  the  table,  Miss 
Nancy  spoke  to  my  grandfather  and  grandmother  of 
Milly,  telling  them  in  few  words  who  she  was,  and  how 
she  had  fallen  in  with  her.  Both  the  old  people  spoke 
to  her  in  their  kindest  way,  my  grandfather  shaking  her 
hand  gently,  and  nay  grandmother  embracing  and  kiss- 
ing her.  She  then  went  round  and  took  her  seat  by 
the  side  of  Miss  Nancy ;  while  the  rest  of  us  stared  at 
her  with  all  the  eyes  we  had,  some  wondering  at  her 
beauty,  some  admiring  her  simple  manners,  and  all 
hedging  her  closely  about  with  their  .sympathies.  The 
evening  meal  was  finished  in  quietness,  every  one  talk- 
ing, and  laughing,  and  full  of  the  best  of  spirits. 

After  supper,  there  was  the  usual  summer  evening 
circle  around  the  rpom,  and  the  usual  gathering  of  the 
younger  ones  near  the  door;  and  as  the  shadows  of 
evening  closed  about  us,  my  grandfather  offered  the 
fervent  prayer,  kneeling  with  uplifted  right  hand,  and 
we  all  said  "  Good  night,"  and  separated.  Milly  was 
introduced  among  us  as  the  special  friend  and  compan- 
ion of  Miss  Nancy ;  and  with  her  she  retired  for  the 
night,  each  one  eagerly  looking  forward  to  the  morning 
again. 

The  morning  came ;  and  Milly  came  with  it,  more 
charming  to  us  than  ever.  She  had  that  same  pleasant 
expression  on  her  countenance,  and  the  same  sweet 
and  simple  manners,  that  had  at  first  won  all  our  hearts. 
She  accosted  us  gracefully,  —  very  gracefully  for  so 


A    QUIET    NOOK.  127 

young  a  child,  —  and  responded  to  our  childish  hopes 
that  we  should  be  able  to  have  many  a  "  good  time " 
before  the  day  was  over. 

I  wondered  how  the  breakfast  table  must  look  to  her, 
spread  with  its  clean,  white  cloth,  and  covered  with  its 
yellow  butter  almost  fresh  from  the  churn,  its  white 
and  brown  bread,  its  capacious  bowls  of  milk  for  the 
younger  ones  who  chose  them,  its  ham,  cut  in  such 
round  and  tempting  slices,  and  its  eggs,  and  the  savory 
steam  of  the  coffee  rising  above  all,  a  sort  of  incense 
from  that  domestic  board.  I  watched  the  perceptible 
glow  and  sparkle  of  her  eyes,  as,  rising  in  the  freshness 
of  the  morning,  she  was  greeted  with  a  sight  so  wel- 
come. It  gave  me  quite  as  much  joy  as  any  other 
sight  could  possibly  have  given  her. 

That  day  was  a  day  of  pleasure.  It  seemed  to  us 
all  a  holiday.  There  was  no  rest  for  the  soles  of  our 
feet  from  early  morning  to  nightfall.  We  felt  it  incum- 
bent on  us,  as  new  entertainers  of  so  choice  a  guest,  to 
see  to  it  that  nothing  worth  seeing  be  overlooked  by 
her,  in  the  rounds  we  made  with  such  persevering  ear- 
nestness. She  was  taken  over  the  corn  crib,  and  the 
barns,  and  the  sheds  ;  and  shown  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  pens,  and  stalls,  and  coops ;  and  carried  to  inspect 
the  ledges  whereon  the  girls  loved  to  build  their  play- 
houses, using  broken  bits  of  crockery  for  household 
Tvares,  and  fencing  off  their  several  domains  with  small 
cobble  stones ;  and  made  to  express  her  astonishment  at 
the  great  fields  of  corn  that  were  waving  in  all  their 
verdure  within  view ;  and  at  the  meadows  sloping  away 
from  the  hillsides  for  acres  and  acres  ;  and  at  the  cattle 
that  were  quietly  grazing  over  them,  dotting  the  land 
picturesquely;  and  at  the  number  of  roofs  that  combined 
to  make  us  so  famous  a  homestead,  offering  to  the 


128  DOVECOTE      * 

eye  the  appearance  of  a  compact  settlement  of  many 
families. 

In  short,  we  tired  her  out ;  and  so  we  did  ourselves. 
When  we  got  through  at  night,  we  were  glad  enough  to 
crawl  off  to  bed  with  as  few  complaints  as  possible, 
trusting  to  the  slumbers  of  the  night  to  refresh  us  for 
the  day  that  was  to  come. 

It  was  hardly  so  bad  the  next  day,  for  the  novelty  of 
the  thing  had  in  a  degree  subsided.  There  was  less 
walking,  and,  perhaps,  more  talking.  We  began  to 
turn  the  subject  over  a  little,  to  look  at  it  on  all  sides. 
Milly  had  not  so  much  to  see  nor  to  wonder  at ;  she 
had  only  to  find  her  way  into  our  youthful  affections. 
And  this  was  an  easy  task  for  her,  for  the  road  was  a 
smooth  and  open  one. 

The  days  at  length  began  to  flow  on  like  the  smooth 
run  of  a  river.  There  were  pleasant  banks  on  either 
side  of  them,  and  many  flowers  ;  and  the  limbs  of  the 
trees  draped  the  surface  of  the  stream,  and  just  broke 
the  smooth  glassiness  of  the  mirror. 

The  old  homestead  grew  dearer  to  the  little  stranger 
all  the  time.  She  had  her  own  room,  near  that  of  Miss 
Nancy,  and  there  her  young  domestic  feelings  seemed 
to  centre.  She  was  up  betimes  in  the  morning,  and 
opened  her  window  before  some  of  us  had  qpeued  even 
our  eyes.  Her  face  was  early  in  a  glow,  and  she 
breathed  the  incense  of  the  earliest  breezes.  She 
romped  up  and  down  the  walks  with  us  a  little  while 
before  breakfast,  to  whet  her  appetite,  and  her  eyes 
glistened  with  the  delight  every  new  day  afforded  her. 

The  haying  season  came  and  went,  during  which  she 
accompanied  us  on  our  errands  to  and  from  the  fields, 
and  helped  us  carry  drink  and  luncheon  to  the  work- 
men in  the  meadows,  and  tossed  about  the  grass  in  the 


A    QUIET    NOOK.  129 

forenoon  sun  to  dry,  and  tried  to  help  rake  the  fragrant 
piles  at  night.  That  was  all  new  to  her.  Its  influences 
on  her  heart  were  deep,  and  the  impressions  of  the  time 
were  such  as  could  never  be  effaced.  The  haymaking 
scenes  must  have  been  rare  pictures,  I  ween,  in  the 
cabinet  of  her  memory  —  the  men  and  the  children 
tumbling  in  the  heaps,  pitching  and  tossing  it  up  from 
the  little  conical  stacks  to  the  carts,  and  slowly  follow- 
ing the  winding  wains  home  again  from  the  long  and 
weary  day's  labor. 

And  afterwards  the  fruits  began  to  ripen,  —  peaches, 
and  plums,  and  raspberries,  —  and  there  were  so  many 
curiosities  for  her  in  the  garden  besides,  when  the  vines 
began  their  generous  yield,  and  the  beet  tops  began  to 
show  their  long,  red  ears,  and  the  bean  pods  to  cluster 
about  the  poles,  ready  for  the  baskets  and  pans  that 
were  not  vainly  held  under  them.  Amidst  this  little  do- 
mestic confusion  she  was  quite  at  home,  and  appeared 
to  enjoy  it  thoroughly.  She  assimilated  to  all  there  was 
around  her  with  great  readiness,  and  became  part  and 
parcel  of  us  and  our  domestic  fortunes  almost  from  the 
first  day  after  her  unexpected  arrival. 

With  the  servants  she  soon  became  a  general  favor- 
ite, more  especially  with  a  man  servant  named  David, 
and  a  woman  named  Abigail.  David  would  hold  her 
on  his  knee,  whenever  the  opportunity  favored,  and  en- 
gross her  attention  with  stories  about  the  old  times,  all 
of  them  exceedingly  improbable  at  best,  but  still  well 
calculated  to  filagree  the  fancies  of  such  a  child  as  she. 
Old  chimney-corner^Stories  were  such,  smoked  with  the 
fires  that  had  bujned  these  many  years,  and  savory  with 
the  memories  of  former  days  and  generations. 

The  summer  passed  away  more  rapidly  to  us  than 
ever,  now  that  we  had  an  accession  to  our  number. 


130  DOVECOTE. 

And  the  long  days  of  autumn  drew  on,  casting  their 
pleasant  shadows  over  our  future,  and  awakening  afresh 
in  us  the  expectant  delights  of  the  season.  The  morn- 
ings now  began  to  be  cooler,  and  the  evenings  grew 
damp  ;  it  was  only  during  the  day  that  it  was  pleasant 
to  lose  one's  self  rambling  about  the  homestead,  wheth- 
er in  the  garden  and  the  yards,  or  over  in  the  meadows 
and  the  woods. 

The  air  was  invigorating,  yet  genial  in  the  extreme. 
It  had  not  the  balminess  and  freshness  of  spring,  but 
was  much  more  tempered,  and  soft,  and  agreeable. 
The  distant  hillsides  began  to  wear  their  livery  of  blue 
haze,  and  the  trees  to  put  on  their  gorgeous  colors. 
Such  were  sights  that  Milly  in  her  life  had  never  seen ; 
and  they  afforded  her,  and  the  rest  of  us  through  her, 
new  delight  every  day. 

It  was  now  but  one  continued  round  of  pleasure  and 
happiness.  Milly  was  adopted  into  our  new  home,  and 
already  had  made  herself  tenderly  beloved  of  us  all. 


CHAPTER   XVIIL 

ON  THE  UPLANDS. 

"  When  the  maple  boughs  are  crimson, 

And  the  hickory  shines  like  gold, 
And  the  noons  are  sultry  hot, 
And  the  nights  are  frosty  cold ;  — 

THAT  was  the  time,  of  all  others,  when  we  loved  to 
tliread  the  woods  and  roam  the  uplands  —  the  autumn 
time ;  the  season  dear  to  our  hearts,  fullest  of  bright 
fancies,  and  most  crowded  with  beautiful  pictures. 

It  all  comes  back  to  me,  now,  with  its  rich  memories. 
They  are  broken,  like  the  bits  of  a  shattered  mirror,  but 
each  fragment  holds  a  picture. 

There  are  the  cattle  paths,  leading  back  across  the 
pastures  from  the  shed  until  their  brown  tracks  lose 
themselves  in  the  woods  that  come  down  from  the  hills 
to  receive  them.  There  are  the  lichen-spotted  walls, 
running  their  lines  of  boundary  across  the  fields,  in 
whose  angles  crowd  armies  of  nettle  weeds,  and  from 
whose  rolling  stones  dangle  briery  vines,  now  turned  a 
ruddy  red. 

There  stand  the  trees  on  the  sides  of  the  hills,  among 
whose  boughs  are  flashing  the  colors  of  the  autumn, 
and  within  whose  shade  are  nestling  spots  of  the  yel- 
lowest and  most  golden  sunshine.  The  rocks,  moss- 
mantled, —  the  narrow  passes  and  miniature  gorges 
through  which  we  climbed  upward,  —  the  bubbling 
springs  by  the  way,  gushing  out  their  crystal  at  our 

(131) 


132  DOVECOTE. 

feet  and  spreading  off  over  the  lowlands,  —  all  these 
come  back  again. 

The  crows  are  flying  and  wheeling  overhead,  sending 
their  croaking  "  caws "  dismally  through  the  solitudes. 
Sometimes  they  light  on  the  crests  of  the  tallest  chest- 
nuts, where  they  look,  as  I  catch  sight  of  them  across 
the  field  of  gold,  like  dastardly  pirates,  painted  all  over 
black,  that  are  cruising  about  overhead  for  some  ex- 
posed craft  weaker  than  themselves.  They  foretell 
winter;  and  I  hear  .the  chill  winds  in  their  dismal 
"  caws." 

Flocks  of  plump  redbreasts  flutter  away  over  the 
ledges,  where  the  purple  and  dark  chokeberries  dangle 
in  necklaces  from  their  stems,  and  the  rank  sedges 
wave  from  gaping  gashes  in  the  rocks.  I  can  hear  the 
silken  rustle  of  their  wings,  as  they  go  by ;  but  not  a 
note  of  joy  have  they  for  the  season  that  is  coming. 
Perchance  I  shall  make  the  acquaintance  of  some  of 
this  same  flock  before  the  snows  shall  have  melted  and 
sunk  into  the  pasture  lands  again. 

The  sky  is  clear  and  dreamy.  It  is  not  patches  of 
blue,  it  is  all  blue  —  deep,  distant,  and  Boundless. 
Strange  feelings  crowd  to  the  heart,  and  great  thoughts 
throng  the  brain,  as  one  looks  up  into  the  silent  ex- 
panse—  feelings  that  must  gush  o Lit  in  a  torrent  if  they 
come  at  all,  and  thoughts  that  will  never  run  "  tripping- 
ly on  the  tongue  "  in  expression. 

As  we  crumple  the  few  dried  leaves  beneath  our 
feet,  now  helping  Nelly,  and  now  little  Alice,  over  the 
rough  surfaces, — shouting  encouragement  to  others  some 
of  the  time,  and  some  of  the  time  feeling  it  all  we  can 
do  to  encourage  ourselves,  —  the  gray  woods  ring  with 
the  glad  voices,  as  if  they  were  peopled  with  living 
echoes. 


ON    THE    UPLANDS.  133 

We  come  to  grape  vines  that  have  clambered  to  the 
tops  of  some  of  the  tallest  trees,  twisting  themselves 
tightly  about  branch  and  stem ;  and,  looking  up,  behold 
leafy  festoons  overhead,  into  which  plump  bunches  of 
grapes,  ready  to  burst  their  swelling  skins,  have  let 
themselves  down,  half  hidden  in  their  purpling  clusters 
among  the  tinted  leaves.  It  looks  like  a  vast  basket 
work  in  the  air,  filled  with  pulpy  fruit,  and  ornamented 
most  fancifully  with  skilfully-dyed  leaves. 

We  see  squirrels  on  our  right  hand  and  on  our  left ; 
and  if  on  our  right  hand,  we  say  it  is  a  sure  harbinger 
of  good  luck.  Theu:  cheeks  are  crammed  full  with 
nuts,  or  with  the  yellow  corn  they  have  been  provident 
enough  to  harvest  from  the  neighboring  field  in  the  val- 
ley. They  flourish  their  bushy  tails  on  their  way,  like 
a  dandy  making  boast  of  the  outside  growth  of  his  head. 
Away  among  the  boughs,  down  one  trunk  and  up 
another,  across  the  backs  of  branching  limbs,  up  among 
the  mottled  masses  of  the  leaves,  now  lost  in  a  patch  of 
gold  and  now  in  a  patch  of  crimson,  frisking,  chattering, 
and  jumping,  they  make  their  swift  journeys  to  their 
winter  dens.  And  they  tell  me  more  feelingly  of  the 
*  coming  season  than  all  the  rest. 

Alice  cries  because  she  cannot  climb  among  the 
jagged  stones,  and  wants  to  be  helped  across  the  beds 
of  the  brooks. 

We  all  run  to  her,  and  she  is  borne  triumphantly  over 
all  difficulties,  no  one  knows  how. 

"  I  was  afraid  !  "  said  she,  whimperingly. 

And  then  we  laugh  loudly  at  her  for  her  fears,  and 
•trut  stoutly  about  in  a  strip  of  sunshine,  looking  like 
dashing  soldiers  at  the  trees,  and  trying  by  such  means 
to  assure  her  that  we  are  not  afraid  ! 

And  we  all  offer  at  once  to  take  her  by  the  hand,  and 
12 


134  DOVECOTE. 

tell  her  that  ohe  shall  go  where  the  nuts  are  plenty,  and 
where  she  need  not  be  afraid.  And  when  we  see  the 
big  tears  sailing  about  in  her  eyes,  just  ready  to  break 
away  from  the  lids  and  roll  down  her  cheeks,  our  hearts 
are  insensibly  touched  with  a  kind  sympathy  for  our  lit- 
tle sister,  and  we  can  hardly  seem  to  do  enough  for  her, 
for  the  moment. 

When  does  the  world  touch  so  tender  a  chord  in  the 
heart  as  this  ?  How  often  are  the  sympathies  so  deep- 
ly stirred,  and  by  such  trifling  causes  ? 

But  it  has  all  the  semblance  of  real  trouble  to  us.  It 
is  a  little  episode  in  our  afternoon's  ramble ;  and  we 
meet  with  few  more  moving  ones  as  we  get  bravely  on 
in  life. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  we  take  in  large  views  on  all 
sides  of  us.  Yonder  are  cornfields,  the  yellow  heads 
of  grain  shining  like  ingots  and  bars  of  gold  in  the 
sloping  sun.  Big  and  round  pumpkins,  filled  to  the  rind 
with  rich  meal,  spot  the  fields  thickly,  so  that  they  look 
as  if  they  were  auriferous  placers.  But  gold  itself  is 
not  worth  more  to  the  New  England  husbandman, 
when  the  white-headed  patriarchs  and  the  prattling 
younkers  gather  about  his  abundant  board  at  the 
Thanksgiving ! 

The  lawns  and  the  meadows  stretch  away  below  us, 
till  their  boundaries  are  lost  in  the  blue  haze  that  lies 
upon  them.  The  brooks  lace  them,  crossing  each  other 
like  threads  in  a  skein.  The  far-off  bars  and  latticed 
gates  dwindle  till  they  look  like  playthings,  opening 
upon  fanciful  squares  and  figures  in  a  clean  carpet,  all 
green.  • 

Kine  straggle  and  browse  here  and  there,  or  stoop  to 
drink  at  the  limpid  rivulets ;  and  look  up  with  almost 
human  eyes,  while  the  frisking  heifers  push  each  other 
to  and  fro  with  their  silver  horns,  just  grown. 


ON    THE    UPLANDS.  135 

The  sounds  that  come  up  to  the  height  on  which  we 
are  grouped  come  softened  and  subdued.  Even  the 
sharp  barking  of  the  dog,  that  has  hunted  the  wood- 
chuck  to  his  hole,  sounds  musical.  The  cry  of  the  la- 
borers to  their  oxen  is  most  welcome  to  the  ear,  as  we 
trace  the  slow  teams  dragging  across  the  fallow  fields. 

We  romp  the  afternoon  away,  and  not  until  the  pur- 
ple piles  with  the  crimson  and  gold  in  the  west,  and  the 
sun's  rays  slant  low  across  the  meadows,  do  we  troop 
off  home  again. 

The  nuts  are  gathered  in  baskets,  and  every  basket 
is  full.  The  older  ones  carry  a  double  load,  relieving 
the  younger,  and  leading  them  carefully  among  the 
rocks  and  over  the  knolls.  Alice  is  so  tired  she  can 
scarcely  tottle,  and  we  all  walk  slower  on  her  account. 
She  keeps  asking  "  if  it's  a  great  way  home,"  and  "  if 
it's  much  farther  home,"  and  "  if  we  shall  see  mother 
again  soon."  And  we  keep  assuring  her  the  best  way 
we  can,  telling  her  how  delighted  mother  will  be  to  see 
how  many  nuts  she  has  gathered,  and  what  a  time  she 
will  have  spreading  them  over  the  garret  floor.  And 
between  talking  and  shouting,  and  silence  and  patient 
plodding,  the  chimneys  of  the  old  home  come  into  view 
among  the  trees  at  last 

Are  there  any  pleasures  in  after  life  like  these  simple 
pleasures  ?  Are  there  any  affections  so  warm  and  so 
single  ?  Are  there  any  feelings  so  free  from  taint  and 
alloy  ? 

Does  any  one  ever  find  along  •  the  highways  of  the 
world  one  of  the  pure,  healthful,  happy  hours  that  were 
strung  so  thickly  along  the  thread  of  his  youth  ?  Can 
a  single  gush  of  such  sweet  sympathy  well  up  from  the 
heart  again  as  bubbled  up  on  these  soft  and  halcyon 
days  of  childhood?  Does  ever  a  soft,  low  whisper 


136  DOVECOTE. 

breathe  into  the  ear  that  can  marshal  such  feelings  at 
its  bidding  as  the  low  tone  of  this  little,  timid  sister  ? 

The  touching  lines  of  Hood  steal  across  my  memory 
as  I  recall  these  woodland  excursions  and  the  strange 
feelings  they  begot :  — 

"  I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high , 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance ; 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy." 

There  was  a  new  life  for  us  on  the  uplands  in  the 
autumn.  We  were  lifted  above  the  atmosphere  we 
had  lived  in,  and  seemed  to  feel  braced  by  the  change. 
The  spirits  danced  to  livelier  tunes,  and  the  blood  tin- 
gled pleasantly  in  the  veins.  The  nuts  fell  about  our 
heads  like  a  storm  of  hail,  while  we  screamed  in  de- 
light. The  squirrels  ran  busily  on  all  sides.  There 
was  a  silvery  gloss  to  the  scraggy  moss  that  clung  to 
the  trees  and  the  rocks,  as  the  sun  glinted  among  its 
scattered  patches. 

And  the  sun  itself  was  so  genial !  and  made  us  all 
take  to  the  woods  with  such  eagerness  !  and  lit  up  the 
stained  arches  beneath  which  we  walked  with  such  a 
bewildering  beauty ! 

I  doubt  not  there  are  many,  many  more  attractive 
places  to  a  man  in  after  life  than  a  versicolored  wood  ; 
but  I  question  if  he  will  come  away  from  any  so  filled 
with  rich  fancies  and  genial  feelings.  The  spirit  of  the 
place  is  upon  him  here ;  and  no  genius  loci  is  so  loath  to 
part  company  with  you. 

In  the  woods,  and  across  the  sloping  and  swelling 


ON    THE    UPLANDS.  137 

uplands,  you  have  a  vast  picture  gallery  about  you. 
There  are  landscapes  that  the  pencil  of  Claude  could 
not  copy.  There  are  blent  tints  in  the  sky  to  which 
Raphael  was  never  equal.  Fancies  hang  in  thick  clus- 
ters among  the  banner-fringed  boughs,  and  dreams  sail 
softly  and  insensibly  to  the  brain  through  the  leafy- 
roofed  aisles. 

The  sun's  rays  lodge  in  the  branches,  piercing  the 
masses  of  foliage  with  their  golden  arrows.  Soothing 
airs  draw  about  the  temples,  lulling  you  as  to  slumber. 
Quiet  thoughts  brood  every  where  —  thoughts  that  are 
themselves  full  of  the  deep  influences  of  the  place  and 
the  time. 

A  fall  day  on  the  uplands  is  a  day  all  .of  pleasure. 
It  was  ever  so  to  me,  and  not  less  even  at  this  time 
than  in  the  golden  cycles  of  my  childhood.  Its  sooth- 
ing winds  sweep  pleasantly  through  every  chamber  of 
my  heart.  Its  generous  and  genial  suns  warm  gently 
every  impulse  of  my  brain. 

The  trees ;  the  fruit-clotted  vines,  holding  their  tro- 
phies proudly  and  high  in  the  sunshine  as  they  climb 
the  natural  trellises  of  the  branches  ;  the  dim  and  dis- 
tant meadows,  seeming  to  melt  in  the  halo  that  mantles 
them ;  the  fields,  red  with  the  buckwheat  stubble,  or 
golden  with  the  slim-eared  maize  and  the  ponderous 
pumpkins,  —  all  these  visions  swim  again  in  my*brain. 
Very  dear  to  me  are  they  all.  Very  rich  are  they  in 
their  memories. 

Alas !  but  they  can  never  live  again  save  in  memory ! 
Alas  for  the  days  that  are  gone  ! 
12* 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE  OLD  GABRET. 

THERE  are  FANCIES  in  a  garret  ? 

And  why  not,  pray,  in  a  garret  ?  and  even  in  an  old 
country  garret,  too  ? 

Though  the  sun  doth  not  flood  the  gloomy  crannies 
and  angles,  and  though  dangling  and  ragged  webs  from 
spiders'  looms  swing  from  one  dark  beam  to  another, 
yet  may  there  be  no  pleasant  fancies  brooding  there  — 
fancies  themselves  golden  with  sunshine,  and  fringed 
with  a  fine  web  of  beauty  ? 

No ;  it  is  not  in  smooth-shaven  meadows  alone,  nor 
beneath  broad-reaching  trees,  nor  beside  brawling  brooks, 
that  one's  better  feelings  will  let  themselves  out  in  a 
genial  flow ;  it  is  not  in  the  woods  only  that  our  inner 
nature  will  take  airy  wings,  and  revel  in  speculations 
and  reveries  far  more  real,  after  all,  than  the  very  real- 
ities about  us;  but  it  is  here  —  it  is  there  —  every 
where  —  it  is  even  beneath  the  wormeaten  rafters  of  a 
dim,  dusty,  lumber-laden  garret !  f 

I  have  got  a  little  apartment  in  a  corner  of  one  of 
these  thought-prompting  garrets  —  none  at  all  too  spa- 
cious, to  be  sure,  lighted  by  but  a  single  window,  and 
walled  in  on  all  sides  by  the  weird  influences  that 
haunt  the  place.  To  this  cosy  retreat  I  am  accustomed 
to  betake  myself  when  I  would  indulge  in  that  soothing 
siesta  of  the  senses  —  a  revery. 

Here   are   no   interruptions;   nothing   to   throw  its 

(138) 


THE    OLD    GARRET.  139 

shadow  between  conception  and  enjoyment.  Of  a 
warm  summer  day  I  open  the  door,  and  suffer  the  cool 
wind  to  draw  through  the  room  from  the  window. 
Sometimes,  on  entering,  it  catches  hold  rudely  by  the 
comers  of  my  manuscript  leaves,  whirls  them  uncere- 
moniously to  the  floor,  performs  a  pirouette,  and  then 
whisks  gayly  out  at  the  door.  There  it  dances  away  at 
its  own  elfish  pleasure  in  the  spacious  garret,  piping  for 
itself  low  music,  and  kicking  up  with  its  airy  feet  the 
dust  of  venerable  years. 

When  the  sunlight  blazes  upon  the  crisped  shingles 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  night,  and  that  I  behold  innu- 
merable stars  where  the  light  streams  through  the  hun- 
dred holes  in  the  roof.  The  effect  is  singular  enough. 
And  I  go  groping  about  in  the  darkness  and  the  dust, 
crouching  beneath  huge  beams,  crawling  carefully  into 
dim  archways  and  quaint  angles,  ransacking  the  lum- 
ber of  years'  accumulation,  and  raising  clouds  of  dust, 
which  the  slender  lines  of  sunlight  through  the  roof 
fashion  into  shining  threads  of  gold. 

All  the  influences  here  at  times  are  sombre ;  yet  they 
are  not  so  sad  as  to  depress  me.  T  have  a  strange  feel- 
ing of  being  momentarily  out  of  the  world.  I  do  not 
feel  lost  —  only  isolated.  Neither  have  I  a  thought 
of  being  utterly  lonely ;  for  olden  associations  come 
thronging  strangely  to  my  heart,  so  that  I  may  readily 
imagine  myself  surrounded  with  beings  of  life  and 
thought. 

As  I  wander  and  grope  about  in  this  spacious  garret, 
I  lose  myself  in  the  varied  play  of  my  feelings.  My 
eyes  fall  on  old  bits  of  trumpery  that  were  vastly 
counted  on  fifty  years  ago.  Here  are  children's  play- 
things, worn,  faded,  and  broken  —  the  bawbles  and 
hobby  horses  that  absorbed  minds  now  impressing 


140  DOVECOTE. 

themselves  upon  the  world.  Here  —  still  clasping  an 
oaken  beam  —  are  the  ends  of  the  rope  by  which  chil- 
dren swung  themselves  full  a  half  century  ago ;  and 
the  whole  dusky  beam  seems  circled  round  and  round 
with  rings  of  childish  laughter.  Here  are  dark  corners, 
and  cosy  angles,  and  curious  spaces,  where  each  erect- 
ed spacious  playhouses,  that  might,  in  mimicry,  have 
rivalled  the  establishments  of  the  jealous  Montagues 
and  Capulets. 

And  I  pick  out  from  the  rubbish,  or  take  down  from 
the  edges  of  beams  and  rafters,  remnants  of  ancient 
china  sets,  with  their  quaint  devices  shattered  into  oth- 
er and  odder  ones  —  all  of  them  faithful  souvenirs  of 
.the  days  and  the  habits  of  our  godly  grandmothers. 
And  hidden  away  in  the  dusty  lumber  are  a  few  old 
and  badly-bedimmed  portraits,  coarsely  enough  done, 
but  once,  probably,  objects  of  secret  pride  and  gratifica- 
tion to  their  owners. 

And  thus,  standing  in  the  midst  of  this  museum  of 
time,  I  perceptibly  feel  the  influence  of  the  deep  silence 
and  the  dim  light ;  and  I  say  to  my  beating  heart,  Why 
should  not  a  garret  be  the  place,  of  all  others,  fullest  of 
living  fancies  ? 

De  Maistre  wrote  a  volume  that  was  filled  with  only 
the  records  of  a  journey  about  his  chamber ;  in  good 
hands,  quite  as  much  might  be  done  for  an  old  garret 

This  garret  I  am  now  in  carries  me  back  again  to  the 
old  one.  There  were  two  broad  and  large  windows  at 
either  end,  through  which  came  all  the  light  by  which 
we  played.  There  were  stout  swings  depending  from 
the  heavy  crossbeams,  where  we  each  of  us  took  our 
turn  at  swinging ;  and  it  was  always  a  matter  of  am- 
bition with  us  to  be  able  to  touch  the  roof  itself,  in  our 
flights,  with  the  tips  of  our  feet, 


THE  OLD  GARRET-  141 

The  girls  —  ever  seeking  some  more  quiet  mode  of 
enjoyment  —  made  wonderful  little  playhouses  in  the 
corners,  partitioning  off  their  separate  domains  by  the 
massive  oaken  joists  that  ribbed  the  whole  structure  of 
Dovecote.  They  set  tables,  and  made  ceremonious 
visits,  and  "  passed  the  afternoon,"  and  went  through 
with  all  the  formulas  of  mature  tea-drinking.  Even 
then  the  germ  of  maternity  was  alive  in  their  hearts. 
No  real  mothers  could  in  any  wise  be  older  than  they. 

Of  a  rainy  day  in  summer,  if  we  could  but  get  leave 
to  play  in  the  garret,  we  were  happy.  No  desire  was 
stronger  at  such  times  than  this.  We  trooped  off 
through  the  back  passages,  little  Alice  always  behind, 
and  welcomed  the  privilege  as  we  went  with  shouts  of 
gladness.  There  was  one  to  claim  one  thing,  as  soon 
as  we  reached  the  head  of  the  garret  stairs,  and  another 
to  claim  another ;  and  we  were  very  sure  to  hear  the 
voice  of  our  aunt,  or  our  mother,  close  after  us,  check- 
ing the  boisterousness  of  our  childish  mirth,  and  never 
forgetting  to  warn  the  older  ones  to  look  carefully  after 
little  Alice. 

There  was  a  large  trap  door,  moving  on  hinges,  that 
we  shut  down  after  us  upon  the  stairs,  and  thus  a 
larger  space  was  left  us  for  our  romping.  It  was  our 
habit  to  make  all  the  room  we  could,  and  to  use  quite 
the  whole  of  it  afterwards. 

There  were  old  barrels,  stowed  full  of  newspapers, 
and  I  know  not  what  beside,  under  the  eaves  ;  and  big 
paper  parcels  of  my  aunt's  savory  herbs,  for  healing 
drinks  ;  and  an  old  side-saddle,  —  I  remember  it  well, 
—  upon  which  we  took  turns  in  imaginary  rides  through 
all  parts  of  the  thereabout  country ;  and  odd  legs  of 
brass  tongs,  bereaved  forever  of  their  mates,  the  shov- 
els ;  and  a  few  curious  old-fashioned  coats,  that  we  de- 


142  DOVECOTE^ 

lighted  to  slip  over  us,  to  make  the  younger  ones  laugh ; 
and  the  wreck  of  a  once  busy  spinning  wheel,  silenced 
forever  from  its  droning  hum. 

And  when  we  ran  far  under  the  eaves,  essaying  to 
bring  back  the  strangest  and  the  quaintest  articles 
imaginable  from  our  forbidden  forrays,  I  remember  well 
the  queer  trumpery  that  used  to  be  drawn  forth  from  its 
lengthened  slumbers.  Bits  of  mechanism,  accounted 
truly  wonderful  in  their  day ;  fragments  of  garments 
that  had  got  thus  stowed  away  by  some  process  un- 
known to  any  body ;  baskets,  and  boots,  and  books, 
and  papers,  —  they  were  all  to  be  found  as  individual 
ingredients  in  the  strange  mixture. 

How  we  loved  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  the  rain  on 
the  roof !  Even  for  hearts  as  untutored  as  ours  it  had 
a  magnetism  in  its  influence.  How  we  stopped  in  the 
midst  of  our  sports,  when  it  came  in  stronger  gusts  upon 
the  shingles,  and  fell  dripping  back  into  the  eaves  and 
gutters  !  What  an  indescribable  feeling  had  we  of 
being  hemmed  in  the  closer  from  the  world,  so  that  our 
young  hearts  grew  suddenly  warmer  and  larger  towards 
each  other  in  their  sympathies  ! 

Some  sat  at  the  dusty  and  cobwebbed  windows,  lost 
in  the  reading  of  "  poor  Robinson  Crusoe ; "  or  touched 
with  the  tenderness  of  the  sweet  tale  of  Bernard  St. 
Pierre  ;  or  wrapped  in  the  interest  that  hung  about  the 
Tales  of  a  Grandfather ;  or  even  firing  their  imagina- 
tions with  the  glowing  pictures  that  abound  in  the 
Arabian  Nights  —  books  that  we  had  smuggled  up 
with  us  from  time  to  time  from  below,  and  which  we 
kept  hidden  away,  to  be  read  in  the  mystic  atmosphere 
and  by  the  dreamy  light  of  the  old  garret.  Ah,  blessed 
— blessed  be  books  and  their  authors !  thrice  blessed, 
when  they  can  take  deep  hold  of  the  child  heart,  and 
mould  it  all  as  they  will ! 


THE    OLD    GARRET.  143 

We  talked  with  each  other  of  the  men  and  women 
of  whom  we  read ;  wondering  greatly  if  they  could  be 
real  characters,  and  whether  they  could  have  felt  all  for 
which  the  good  old  authors  made  them  accountable. 
We  kept  swinging  and  kept  talking.  We  walked  away 
into  farther  recesses,  still  painting  over  again  the  scenes 
that  had  so  warmed  and  illumined  our  imaginations. 

Not  unfrequently,  too,  some  of  us  personated  the 
characters  that  had  so  engrossed  us  in  the  stories  we 
read  ;  and  this  seemed  to  be  especially  the  case  in  the 
matter  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  One  would  act  out  the  fa- 
mous solitary  himself,  walking  thoughtfully  on  the 
beach  formed  by  a  single  oaken  board ;  while  another 
played  the  character  of  his  man  Friday,  making  all  sorts 
of  supplicant  gesticulations  to  him,  as  he  feared  from 
the  same  fatal  weapon  by  which  his  cruel  captors  had 
fallen.  We  built  grottoes,  and  constructed  caves,  and 
kept  kittens  for  goats,  when  we  could  get  them,  and 
fairly  picketed  in  our  rude  castle,  as  if  fortifying  it 
against  a  regular  siege.  I  know  not  what  the  element 
is,  in  childish  character,  but  it  is  certain  that  children 
love  to  play  at  nothing  so  much  as  solitude.  It  might 
be  better  for  many  of  us,  if  we  made  somewhat  of  a 
serious  play  of  it  as  we  get  on. 

What  food  is  there  for  the  heart  in  country  garrets, 
crowded  to  the  roof  with  their  memories,  just  as  they 
are  stowed  so  thickly  with  the  rubbish  of  rusty  years  ! 
How  softly  fall  the  influences  of  the  place  upon  the 
thought,  soothing  its  quick  pulses,  and  gently  holding 
the  feelings  in  their  silken  leash  !  How  sacred  are  all 
the  associations  that  sleep  in  the  dust  of  their  angles 
and  recesses,  knitting  together  again  days  far  apart,  and 
weaving  in  their  subtle  looms  cloths  on  which  are 
wrought  the  pictures  of  many  and  many  a  lifetime  ! 


CHAPTER   XX. 

NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

AFTER  dinner,  on  one  of  the  very  pleasantest  of  those 
pleasant  autumn  days,  Milly  put  on  her  little  hood  and 
shawl  for  a  stroll  by  herself  about  the  garden.  Un- 
consciously she  wandered  along  through  the  garden  into 
the  meadow,  and  kept  walking  on,  she  knew  not  how 
far,  until  she  found  herself  stopped  by  a  high  rail  fence 
that  exactly  crossed  her  path.  As  she  looked  up  to 
measure  the  formidableness  of  its  height,  her  eyes  were 
greeted  by  the  sight  of  a  girl,  somewhat  older  and  larger 
than  herself,  sitting  on  the  top  rail !  She  drew  back  in 
astonishment.  , 

For  at  least  two  or  three  minutes  the  two  girls  deliber- 
ately surveyed  each  other,  neither  of  them  offering  a  word. 

At  last  the  one  that  kept  watch  on  the  rail  fence  ven- 
tured to  acknowledge  the  presence  of  Milly,  by  asking, 
"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Milly,"  said  the  other. 

"  Milly  ?     Where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  From  Dovecote,"  answered  Milly.  "  Over  there." 
And  she  pointed  to  the  distant  roofs  and  chimneys. 

"  But  you  don't  belong  there,"  persisted  the  stranger. 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  always  belonged  there  ? "  said  she.  "  /  never 
see  you  there." 

"  No,  not  but  a  little  while." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

(144) 


NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.  145 

Milly  evaded  a  direct  answer. 

"  Are  you  going  to  live  there  ? "  persisted  her  in- 
terrogator. 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so,"  answered  Milly. 

"  Are  the  folks  there  your  relations,  then  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  how  did  you  know  'em  before  you  come  ? 
How  did  you  find  the  way  there  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  come  alone  ;  I  came  with  Miss  Nancy." 

"  Is  she  a  relation,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  know,"  said  the  child. 

"  That's  odd,  now !  What  a  queer  little  thing  you 
be  !  Where  be  you  going  now  ?  " 

"  Any  where  —  nowhere." 

"  You  are  as  cur'ous  a  little  body  as  I've  seen  this 
good  while.  I  was  thinking  I'd  go  down  to  Dovecote 
myself;  but  I  guess  I  won't,  now.  Til  stay  here  and 
keep  you,  company." 

"  I  don't  want  to  stay  here"  said  Milly. 

"  Where  then  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  walk  about,  to  see  the  trees  and  all  the 
beautiful  things  round  here." 

"  Didn't  you  never  live  in  the  country  before  ?  "  asked 
the  stranger. 

"  Not  like  this,  I  didn't,"  answered  Milly. 

"  What  kind  of  a  country  was  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  half  so  pleasant  as  this.  I  never  saw  any  thing 
so  pleasant  before  as  it  is  here." 

"  Dovecote  is  a  pleasant  place,  and  every  body  says  so. 
I  love  to  come  down  here  myself;  but  it's  only  once  in 
a  while.  I  don't  come  often.  'Tain't  likely  they  want 
to  see  such  as  me  round  here  much." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Milly. 

"  O,  because,"  she  replied. 
13 


146  DOVECOTE. 

"  Because  what  ?  "  persisted  Milly. 

"  O,  because  I  ain't  like  the  children  there.  I'm  an 
odd  one ! " 

Milly  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  that  means  ?  You  look  at 
me  as  if  you  didn't." 

"  No,"  said  the  child. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  to  be  different  from  every 
body  else  round  you.  It's  to  be  alone  all  the  time,  and 
to  keep  your  thoughts  all  to  yourself,  and  to  cry  by 
yourself,  and  laugh  by  yourself.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, 
Milly ;  it's  to  be  miserable  !  I  hope  you  never'll  be  an 
odd  one." 

The  girl  had  touched  the  little  wanderer's  sympa- 
thies. She  looked  the  pity  she  could  not  express,  but 
only  feel. 

"  But  where  do  you  stay,  if  you  don't  come  here 
often  ?  "  asked  Milly,  picking  in  pieces  a  late  flower  she 
had  plucked  from  near  her  feet.  "  Where  do  you 
live  ?  " 

"  Up  in  the  woods." 

"  In  the  woods  ?  "  exclaimed  Milly. 

"  Yes  ;  why  not  ?  " 

"  What,  sleep  in  the  woods  ?  " 

"  Certain." 

"  And  live  in  the  woods  ? " 

"  Certain  ;  didn't  you  never  hear  of  such  a  thing  as 
that  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Milly ;  and  it  is  to  be  questioned  if,  grad- 
uate of  the  poorhouse  that  she  was,  she  ever  had  heard 
of  a  life  that  seemed  to  her  so  wild  and  strange. 

"  Then  you'd  like  to  see  where  I  live,  I  know,"  said 
the  girl.  "  Would  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Milly. 


NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.  147 

"  Why,  I  should  think  you'd  know  whether  you'd  like 
it  or  not.  "Why  shouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid." 

"Afraid!  Poh !  Why  ain't  I  afraid,  then?  I've 
lived  there  so  long,  too." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be,"  said  Milly. 

"  Well,  but  I  ain't !  And  now,  if  ymt,  could  but  see 
the  place,  I  know  you'd  like  it,  too.  Why  not  ?  It's 
as  pleasant  as  Dovecote  is,  in  its  way." 

Milly  stood  and  pondered  upon  it. 

"  Let's  go  up  there  now,"  offered  the  girl. 

"  Where  is  it  ? "  asked  Milly,  looking  up  into  her 
face. 

"  Up  yonder,"  said  she ;  "  up  the  mountain." 

She  pointed  in  the  direction  it  would  be  necessary 
for  them  to  take. 

"  It's  not  a  long  walk,"  urged  she,  "  and  I'll  come 
back  with  you  again.  I'll  bring  you  back  to  this  very 
spot." 

"  Who's  up  there  ?  "-asked  Milly. 

"  Nobody  lives  there  but  my  grandfather  and  me," 
said  the  girl,  "  and  he  ain't  to  home  now ;  he's  gone 
a-fishing.  He  won't  be  back,  'tain't  likely,  till  night. 
Come ! " 

Milly  needed  no  more  pressing,  but  immediately 
started  off  with  her  newly-found  companion.  They 
climbed  the  fence,  and  went  rambling  across  the  pas- 
tures, and  up  over  the  sloping  hillsides,  until  they  were 
finally  lost  from  view.  The  girl  took  her  on  by  cir- 
cuitous paths,  where  her  feet  had  never  trod  before,  and 
through  tangled  underwood,  and  around  huge  rocks 
that  seemed  to  have  rolled  from  their  places,  and  finally 
began  to  climb  the  steep  acclivity  that  went  by  the 
name,  thereabout,  of  "  the  mountain." 


148  DOVECOTE. 

All  the  way  they  continued  their  desultory  and  child- 
ish conversation,  each  of  them  putting  the  other  as 
many  questions  as  entered  her  head,  and  offering  such 
queer  opinions  and  speculations  as  swim  only  in  the 
brains  of  children. 

"  You've  told  me  your  name,"  said  the  stranger  girl, 
"  and  now  I'll  tell  you  mine.  It's  Daisy ;  and  I  live 
with  my  grandfather,  and  nobody  else.  We  live  all 
alone  up  here ;  and  it's  pretty  lonesome,  too,  some- 
times." 

Milly  told  her  that  she  thought  it  must  be. 

"  Yes,"  said  Daisy ;  "  but  then  they  tell  me  it's  lone- 
some every  where,  at  times.  It's  jest  as  a  body  hap- 
pens to  feel,  you  know.  Now,  up  here  I  can  enjoy 
myself  as  much  in  the  woods  round  the  door  as  other 
folks  do  in  their  gardens.  It's  all  the  same  to  me  as  if 
I  was  right  in  the  midst  o'  folks.  I'm  jest  as  happy. 
I  look  up  to  the  sky,  and  see  jest  the  same  clouds  other 
folks  see ;  and  I  look  off,  and  see  the  very  same  village 
that  people  li ve  in ;  and  it  looks  all  the  pleasanter,  you 
know,  for  the  distance.  I  love  the  woods,  too,  and  the 
flowers,  and  the  rocks,  and  the  vines,  and  the  grass." 

"  But  I  should  think  you'd  want  your  mother  to  live 
with  you,"  said  Milly. 

"  I  haven't  got  no  mother,"  answered  Daisy.  "  I  wish 
I  had." 

There  was  a  thoughtful  pause,  during  which  these 
two  young  hearts  beat  in  deep  sympathy  together. 
Each  of  them  motherless  !  how  well  worthy  of  pity, 
both  of  them ! 

"  My  grandfather,"  Daisy  went  on,  "  is  all  the  relation 
I've  got  —  all  the  friend  I've  got ;  and  he  ain't  with  me 
much  of  the  time.  He's  off  fishing  or  hunting  gen- 
erally. That's  the  way  he  lives,  only  when  he's  to 


NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.  149 

home,  in  the  rainy  days  and  the  winter  days,  to  make 
baskets." 

"  What's  his  name  ? "  asked  Milly. 

"  Every  body  calls  him  Jarvie  ;  Jarvie  Thatch  is  his 
whole  name  ;  and  I'm  his  only  relation." 

"  Do  you  like  to  stay  up  here  so  much  alone  ?  " 

"  I  love  my  grandfather,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  couldn't 
leave  him  to  live  any  where.  Would  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  want  him  to  live  somewhere  else,"  said 
Milly. 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  say  so,"  replied  Daisy,  "  when 
you  come  to  see  what  a  pleasant  spot  our  hut's  in. 
Besides,  he's  so  good  to  me  !  he  does  every  thing  for 
me." 

"  Then  he  ought  to  let  you  live  nearer  people." 

"  But  I  tell  him  I  am  happy  up  here.  I  don't  want 
to  live  any  where  else.  I've  got  use*  to  this  place ; 
and  I  couldn't  go  away  now,  I  don't  think." 

"  Shouldn't  you  like  to  live  at  Dovecote  ? "  asked 
Milly. 

The  question  staggered  her.  She  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  answer. 

And  in  this  way  they  talked  while  they  walked, 
gleaning  items  of  intelligence  from  each  other  in  the 
very  natural  way  of  question  and  answer,  steadily 
climbing  the  ascent,  and  winding  upwards  by  the  devi- 
ous paths,  until  they  at  last  reached  the  edge  of  a  little 
clearing.  As  the  spot  broke  on  their  sight,  Daisy  went 
forward  of  her  companion  quickly,  and,  holding  out 
both  hands,  exclaimed, — 

"  This  is  where  I  live  !     There's  the  hut,  yonder  ! " 

And  with  the  words,  they  emerged  upon  the  little 
opening. 

The  place  seemed  to  be  a  naturally-constructed  shelf, 
13* 


150  DOVECOTE. 

or  fragment  of  table  land,  set  snugly  into  the  side  of 
the  mountain.  Hemlock  and  spruce  threw  down  their 
dark  shadows  upon  the  ground,  and  old  logs,  the  trunks 
of  fallen  trees,  lay  stretched  across  each  other,  to  decay 
in  the  storms  and  sunshine.  There  was  a  fair  growth 
of  coarse  grass  upon  the  plain,  sufficiently  thick  to  form 
a  carpet  for  the  feet  of  the  recluse  inmates  of  the  hut, 
and  dotted  here  and  there  with  a  clump  of  dwarfed 
savin  and  juniper.  There  was  not  the  least  appearance 
of  a  spirit  of  thrift,  or  any  thing  that  resembled  it  All 
was  as  wild  as  the  felling  of  the  trees  and  the  erection 
of  a  hut  had  left  it. 

The  latter  was  somewhat  of  a  curiosity.  It  was 
built  against  the  shoulder  of  a  square  fragment  of 
ledge,  that  seemed  made  there  expressly  for  its  con- 
venience, with  one  window,  and  a  low,  wide  door  ex- 
actly in  the  middle.  The  structure  was  almost  wholly 
composed  of  rude  logs,  dovetailed  together  at  the  two 
front  corners,  and  closed  up  at  the  narrow  interstices 
with  streaks  and  patches  of  mud.  The  roof  was  hur- 
riedly put  together ;  and  where  the  boards  came  from, 
few  as  they  were,  was  altogether  a  mystery.  It  was 
but  a  step  from  the  sill  to  the  hard  ground,  with  nothing 
like  a  doorstone  beneath.  A  multitude  of  dried  bushes 
—  savin,  and  hemlock,  and  white  oak  boughs  —  were 
strewed  about  at  the  sides  and  on  the  top  of  the  hut, 
probably  having  done  their  little  service  towards  keep- 
ing off  the  biting  winds  of  the  last  winter. 

From  the  spot  there  was  a  beautiful  view,  indeed,  as 
Daisy  had  already  hinted  to  her  young  companion.  In 
the  distance  was  the  pleasant  little  village  of  Kirkwood, 
with  its  row  of  white  houses,  half  hidden  by  maples, 
and  sycamores,  and  elms  ;  and  its  slender  church  spire, 
pointing  straight  to  heaven,  as  if  it  would  say  there 


NEW    ACQUAINTANCE.  151 

was  but  one  path  there  ;  and  its  village  of  graves,  the 
ground  dotted  thickly  with  white  and  brown  headstones. 
As  the  eye  drew  its  vision  nearer  the  mountain,  all  the 
pleasant  domain  of  Dovecote  stretched  out  before  it, 
forming  a  complete  cabinet  picture  by  itself ;  while  at 
the  foot  slept  a  sullen,  gloomy -looking  mass  of  forest, 
the  ambitious  chestnuts  aspiring  far  above  the  rest  of 
the  dense  growth,  and  all  the  mass  stained  and  blotched, 
at  this  season,  with,  colors  that  were  enough  to  bewil- 
der the  brain.  Milly  did  not  stop  long  there  to  look  on 
this  grand  picture,  for  her  companion  hurried  her  along, 
inviting  her  to  enter  the  hut. 

The  door  was  already  wide  open.  No  need  of  locks 
and  bolts  on  a  structure  so  frail  as  the  hut  of  old  Jarvie 
Thatch;  and  little  was  there,  either,  that  the  most 
vicious  thief  would  have  felt  disposed  to  steal. 

They  went  in ;  and  Daisy  seated  her  friend  in  an  old 
chair  that  had  been  newly  bottomed  by  her  grandfather 
with  clean  strips  of  ash.  Milly  looked  inquisitively 
about  the  apartment.  It  was  almost  as  rude  within  as 
without.  The  floor  was  partly  of  oak  and  partly  of 
chestnut,  with  gaping  chinks  and  seams  between  the 
planks,  and  not  so  much  as  a  narrow  strip  of  carpet  to 
cover  one  of  them.  There  was  a  fireplace  in  the  rude 
stone  chimney,  and  a  large  flat  stone  had  been  laid  for 
the  hearth.  In  the  corner  was  a  bed,  on  which  old 
Jarvie  slept.  In  an  opposite  corner,  screened  partly 
from  sight  by  the  ragged  drapery  of  an  ancient  bedquilt, 
was  the  cot  where  Daisy  slept.  There  was  an  old, 
faded,  red  chest  standing  against  the  wall,  and  next  it 
a  plain  table  of  pine ;  and  on  the  table  lay  a  large  book 
—  a  Bible.  A  few  chairs,  made  by  the  ingenuity  of 
Jarvie  himself,  completed  the  list  of  the  furniture.  A 
black  cat  lay  snuggled  up  before  the  hearth,  who  stared 


152  DOVECOTE. 

at  Milly  when  she  entered,  and,  seeing  all  was  right, 
curled  herself  up  and  grew  drowsy  again. 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  door,  and  a  man  entered. 
It  was  Jarvie !  Milly  looked  at  him  half  in  affright. 
He  wore  a  slouched  felt  hat,  and  carried  a  small  string 
of  some  kind  of  fish  in  his  left  hand.  His  eyes  were 
wild  in  their  expression,  and  pierced  Milly  as  if  they 
would  pierce  her  through.  He  had  suffered  his  beard 
to  grow  rather  long,  which,  with  his  ragged  jacket  and 
pantaloons,  and  hardworn  shoes,  and  slouched  hat,  and 
wiry  frame,  made  him  look  enough,  thought  Milly,  to 
frighten  any  one.  The  cat  instantly  roused  herself  on 
hearing  his  step,  and  at  once  began  rubbing  herself 
backwards  and  forwards  against  his  leg. 

He  threw  down  his  fish  on  a  little  bench  near  the 
fireplace,  and  listened  attentively  to  Daisy  while  she 
narrated  the  brief  history  of  her  acquaintance  with 
Milly,  and  their  mutual  experience  up  the  mountain. 
He  did  not  put  the  child  many  questions,  but  his  eyes 
dwelt  so  fixedly  on  her  face,  and  with  such  a  strange 
glare,  —  betraying  both  thoughtfulness  and  curiosity, — 
that  she  felt  as  if  she  would  rather  be  any  where  else 
than  there ;  and  in  a  short  time  she  did  go,  escorted 
down  the  mountain  again  by  Daisy,  according  to 
promise. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MR.  BRIMMER'S  BEE. 

SLOWLY  the  reddening  suns  of  autumn  went  south- 
ward, and  the  white  frosts  came  creeping  on,  and  the 
leaves  fell  whirling  here  and  there  from  the  trees.  The 
days  grew  shorter,  arid  concentrated  all  their  feeble 
warmth  into  the  noons.  The  school  "let  out"  earlier, 
that  the  children  might  be  home  seasonably ;  and  the 
tea  table  was  laid  at  an  hour  just  between  the  short 
twilight  and  the  dark. 

And  autumn  slipped  away  altogether.  The  very  last 
day  was  gone.  December  came  in  howling  and  blus- 
tering, as  if  it  were  about  to  carry  the  town  by  storm. 
But  many  of  the  old  people  had  seen  winters  before  ; 
and  they  only  piled  up  larger  fires,  and  wrapped  them- 
selves in  more  comfortable  clothing,  and  raised  their 
spirits  correspondingly,  and  stood  their  ground. 

It  was  a  bitter  winter,  and  people  all  began  to  ad- 
mit it  before  the  year  turned  the  corner.  When  the 
new  year  opened  the  roads  were  banked  with  snows, 
and  all  hands  turned  out  to  "break  paths"  with  ox 
sleds  and  huge  shovels.  There  was  a  universal  look- 
ing forward  to  the  evening  of  that  day,  for  it  was  to  be 
the  occasion  of  a  famous  reunion  at  the  house  of  the 
minister.  In  short,  there  was  always  a  "  bee  "  at  the 
minister's  every  New  Year's  day. 

The  good  man's  name  was  Mr.  Brimmer ;  and  by  his 
kindly  offices  every  where,  his  faultless  walk  before  all 

(153) 


154  DOVECOTE. 

eyes,  his  geniai  and  generous  sympathies  with  his  hum- 
ble little  flock,  he  had  laid  away  for  himself  uncounted 
treasures  in  their  memory.  The  good  people  of  Kirk- 
wood  rarely  did  any  thing  of  this  kind  by  halves  ;  and 
if  they  liked  their  minister  at  all,  they  loved  him ;  if 
they  made  aught  of  him,  they  idolized  him.  So  that 
it  may  be  no  subject  of  wonder,  that  all  the  men,  women, 
and  children  of  the  village  steadily  looked  out  for  snow 
days  before  the  event  now  expected,  and  flatted  their 
noses  against  the  window  panes  early  on  this  New 
Year's  morning,  to  learn  if  the  weather  was,  as  usual, 
to  be  propitious. 

People  never  could  have  asked  for  more.  It  was  ex- 
actly to  their  minds. 

There  were  few  of  the  children  at  Dovecote  that  were 
generally  allowed  to  mingle  in  this  festival  with  their 
elders ;  but  on  this  particular  occasion  Miss  Nancy  had 
concluded  to  take  Milly  along  with  her  to  the  minister's, 
desirous  of  having  her  see  the  many  good  people  that 
yearly  flocked  to  his  help,  and  of  giving  her  sound 
views  of  pleasure,  and  duty,  and  affection.  Besides 
this,  it  would  be  quite  a  new  sight  to  the  child,  and 
could  not  fail  to  inspirit  her  afresh.  So,  when  the  large 
family  party  was  finally  made  up  at  Dovecote,  and  the 
great  working  horses  had  been  hitched  to  the  huge 
sleigh  that  went  by  the  name  of  the  "  pung,"  Milly 
found  herself  stowed  snugly  away  —  she  knew  not 
where  or  how  —  among  cloaks,  and  coats,  and  furs, 
braced  by  the  raw  air  that  found  its  way  to  her  seclu- 
sion, and  gliding  swiftly  along  to  the  jangling  music  of 
many  rows  of  bells. 

They  arrived  safely  at  the  parsonage,  where  the  good 
Mr.  Brimmer  was  ready  to  receive  them  in  the  entry, 
shaking  hands  with  noticeable  cordiality  with  the  old 


Mil.    BRIMMER'S    BEE.  155 

people,  and  welcoming  the  younger  in  a  pleasant  way 
that  none  understood  better  than  he.  The  various  ar- 
ticles of  defence  against  the  cold  were  piled  promis 
cuously  in  one  family  group,  and  all  moved  quietly  into 
the  room  of  reception.  Few  had  as  yet  arrived ;  and 
Mr.  Brimmer  sat  talking  with  my  grandparents  about 
the  coldness  of  the  present  winter,  compared  with  some 
other  winters  that  they  knew  something  of.  The  atten- 
tion of  Milly  was  chiefly  taken  up  with  the  questions 
of  the  minister's  wife,  who  had  beguiled  her  to  the  win- 
dow, and  was  showing  her  some  of  the  samplers  she 
had  wrought  in  her  younger  days,  which  must  have 
been  very  long  ago. 

Presently  the  sleighs  began  to  drive  up  before  the 
door  in  good  earnest.  There  was  little  else  but  a 
steady  jingle,  jingle  of  bells.  The  ladies  were  helped 
out,  and  ran  immediately  into  the  house,  as  fast  as  their 
bundled  condition  allowed ;  and  the  men  drove  their 
horses  round  to  the  barn,  and  soon  afterwards  joined 
those  they  had  brought. 

Mr.  Brimmer  was  glad  to  see  all.  So  was  Mrs. 
Brimmer.  And  it  was  gratifying  to  observe  the  delicate 
attentions  which  the  very  roughest  and  most  thought- 
less of  the  men  voluntarily  paid  my  grandparents. 
Every  one  had  a  kind  word  for  them ;  and  the  old  peo- 
ple appeared  to  be  in  their  element. 

There  came  the  Bradshaws,  in  a  double  sleigh  drawn 
by  a  red  horse  and  a  white  one,  the  white  one  consid- 
erably the  largest ;  and  then  the  Featherfews,  the  old 
lady  and  five  girls  of  them,  and  a  ringing  set  of  girls 
they  were,  too ;  and  then  the  Gerrys ;  and  the  Apple- 
bys ;  and  plain  Mr.  Olney,  the  postmaster,  with  all  his 
stern  ofiicial  dignity,  and  his  wife  ;  and  Mrs.  Bayberry, 
with  a  raw  son  and  a  very  tall  daughter,  whom  some 


156  DOVECOTE. 

were  rude  enough  to  liken  to  a  tallow  candle  with  a 
good  deal  of  bayberry  in  it ;  and  Miss  Sparhawk,  the 
old  maid,  with  a  very  sharp  nose  and  chin  and  a  very 
acidulous  face ;  and  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  the  woman  who 
played  the  part  of  the  Great  Mogul  in  village  gossip, 
fleshy  and  imposing,  with  a  face  as  red  as  a  roasted  ap- 
ple ;  and  afterwards  the  village  doctor,  his  face  much 
stained  with  snuff,  and  a  young  student  of  his,  named 
Sky  pepper,  who  wore  very  tight  pantaloons  of  blue, 
with  very  long  leather  straps  to  keep  them  down,  and 
brushed  his  black  hair  like  a  steeple  over  his  forehead, 
and  showed  his  great  teeth  to  their  best  advantage. 

It  was  a  merry  party  indeed,  and  quite  as  curious  as 
it  was  merry.  Yet,  for  all  its  seeming  incongruities, 
every  one  appeared  to  know  exactly  his  or  her  own 
place,  and  slipped  into  it  with  as  little  fuss  as  statues 
are  lodged  in  the  niches  prepared  beforehand  for  them. 
The  supper  was  a  famous  one.  Every  thing  was  on 
the  table,  and  every  body  was  there  to  help  eat  it.  All 
brought  eatables  with  them,  however,  contributing  to 
the  common  stock.  Some  only  sipped  a  cup  of  hot 
tea ;  others  simply  broke  a  piece  of  light  cake  ;  some  of 
the  more  earnest  eaters  laid  away  comfortable  internal 
supplies  of  meat,  of  which  various  kinds  had  been  fur- 
nished cold ;  brown  hands  broke  browner  biscuits,  of 
the  size  of  saucers ;  and  all  talked,  and  laughed,  and 
talked  again. 

After  supper  the  company  adjourned  to  the  next 
room,  where  each  donated  his  or  her  yearly  gift  to  the 
minister,  calling  it  off  with  then:  names.  The  room  was 
full  of  gifts  and  people.  One  offered  a  good  sack  of 
yellow  meal,  yellow  as  gold ;  another  a  barrel  of  flour ; 
another  a  pair  of  smoked  hams ;  another  a  round  of 
beef;  and  others  cake,  and  pies,  and  loaves  of  bread, 


MR.  BRIMMER'S  BEE.  157 

white  and  brown,  and  garments  of  various  uses  and 
descriptions,  and  pieces  of  cloth  that  would  be  useful 
in  their  time.  And  last  of  all,  while  the  company  were 
still  crowded  in  the  room  where  these  things  mostly 
were,  up  before  the  door  came  a  huge  load  of  wood, 
drawn  by  twelve  yokes  of  oxen,  each  yoke  driven  by  a 
young  man  of  the  town.  The  sled  containing  the 
wood  had  been  made  expressly  for  this  occasion,  and 
must  have  carried  eight  or  ten  cords.  It  was  hailed 
with  vociferous  cheers  and  commendations  from  within ; 
and  then  the  young  men  drove  it  round  the  house  into 
the  yard.  When  they  finally  entered  the  room  where 
we  were,  later  in  the  evening,  it  may  be  safely  calcu- 
lated that  they  received  the  especial  praise  and  compli- 
ments of  every  body. 

Then  some  of  them  commenced  playing  at  blind 
man's  buff,  a  game  at  which  Miss  Sparhawk  declared 
no  one  but  a  fool  would  play. 

"  The  fools  ain't  all  dead  yet ! "  said  Mrs.  Weather- 
wax,  bridling,  yet  looking  only  at  the  players. 

"  No ;  I  see  they  ain't ! "  retorted  Miss  Sparhawk, 
setting  her  gray,  gimlet  eyes  fixedly  upon  Mrs.  Weath- 
erwax. 

These  two  ladies  were  the  flint  and  steel  of  the  town. 
Whenever  they  came  in  conflict,  fire  was  pretty  sure  to 
follow. 

Mr.  Skypepper  strutted  that  way. 

"  Did  you  ever,  Mr.  Skypepper  ? "  said  Miss  Spar- 
hawk,  languishingly  for  her.  "  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
foolish  game  as  this  ?  " 

"Really,  I  — I " 

"Did  you  ever  know  any  one,  Mr.  Skypepper,  that 
found  so  iruich  fault  with  games  she  couldn't  play  at 
herself?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Weatherwax. 
14 


158  1JOVEUOTEE. 

Miss  Sparhawk  threw  her  an  indignant  glance.  "  Why 
can't  I  play  at  so  silly  a  game  as  blind  man's  buff,  I 
should  like  to  know?"  said  she. 

"  O,"  returned  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  very  dignifiedly, 
"  because  you're  much  above  it,  you  know.  It's  below 
you,  Miss  Sally."  She  always  called  her  "  Miss  Sally  " 
when  she  wished  to  be  particularly  provoking.  "  That's 
one  reason." 

"  Umph !     And  what's  the  other  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think,  Miss  Sally,"  replied  she,  "  you're  a 
little  afraid  you  won't  get  your  share  of  the  kisses  ! " 
And  Mrs.  Weatherwax  laughed  with  a  great  explosion. 

Mr.  Skypepper  blushed,  as  what  young  man  in  like 
circumstances  would  not  ?  Miss  Sparhawk  turned  red 
in  the  face,  till  her  face  looked  decidedly  like  a  hot 
stove.  There  was  certainly  a  good  fire  beneath. 

"Just  as  if,"  said  she,  angrily,  "just  as  if " 

"  Yes,  just  as  if,  Miss  Sally,  it  wasn't  just  so,  every 
bit  of  it ! " 

"  I  admire  to  see  people  jealous,  don't  you,  Mr.  Sky- 
pepper  ?  "  said  Sally,  looking  up  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Skypepper  glanced  at  Mrs.  Weatherwax  to  see 
if  he  might  venture  an  opinion  secure  of  attack,  and 
then  dropped  his  eyes  to  his  straps.  During  the  course 
of  this  operation,  the  steeple  on  his  head  came  tum- 
bling down  in  ruins  about  his  forehead,  making  quite 
another  man  of  him.  No  one  would  have  taken  him 
for  Mr.  Skypepper  then. 

Mrs.  Bayberry  and  her  "tallow-candle"  daughter 
intruded. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Skypepper ! "  exclaimed  she ;  "  is  this 
you  ?  I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  you  this  long  time.  Mar- 
garet," this  is  Mr.  Skypepper ;  you  remember  my  Marga- 
ret, Mr.  Skypepper?" 


MR.    BRIMMER'S    BEE.  159 

"  O,  perfectly,"  said  he,  half  bowing  to  the  tall  young 
lady. 

Miss  Sally  Sparhawk  was  eying  the  unfortunate 
daughter  from  head  to  foot,  and  so  back  again.  Her 
attention  finally  settled  upon  her  face,  where  she  stud- 
ied every  flaw  discoverable,  and  found  faults  that  other 
eyes  had  never  found  before. 

Poor  Mr.  Skypepper !  They  had  him  there  in  dur- 
ance for  a  long  time.  Mrs.  Bayberry  cordially  invited 
him  to  her  house.  Mrs.  Weatherwax  laid  her  head 
back  in  her  chair,  and,  half  laughing,  told  Miss  Sally 
that  her  laurel  plants  needed  looking  to ;  at  which  Miss 
Sally  looked  unmuttered  thunder  at  her,  and  conde- 
scended no  reply.  Between  the  old  maid  and  the 
younger  one,  Mr.  Skypepper  found  himself  kept  won- 
derfully busy ;  and  as  for  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  she  looked 
on  and  laughed  as  long  as  she  could  enjoy  it  as  a  nov- 
elty, and  then  withdrew,  as  Mrs.  Bayberry  had  done 
before  her.  Mr.  Skypepper  went  home  with  Miss 
Sally,  however,  that  evening;  but  Mrs.  Weatherwax 
always  insisted,  afterwards,  that  the  young  gentleman 
accepted  her  escort,  and  not  she  his  ! 
*  In  other  parts  of  the  room,  all  the  romping  having 
long  ago  been  transferred  to  the  spacious  kitchen, 
grouped  the  postmaster  and  the  doctor,  with  one  of  the 
selectmen  and  the  storekeeper ;  and  two  or  three  ladies 
sat  talking  very  interestedly  with  Milly,  bringing  out 
her  many  charming  qualities  with  their  rapid  questions, 
and  turning  to  Miss  Nancy  to  apprise  her  of*  their  ex- 
alted opinions  of  her  little  protegee.  Milly,  of  course, 
was  delighted  with  the  whole  scene.  The  good  minis- 
ter took  her  on  his  knee,  too,'  and  held  her  with  his  talk 
for  some  time,  most  of  all  pleased  with  the  candid  and 


160  DOVECOTE. 

truthful  answers  she  made  to  his  questions.  He  must 
have  paid  her  more  attention,  at  first,  in  consideration 
of  her  many  misfortunes  hitherto,  of  which  the  outline 
had  already  been  given  him ;  but  after  he  found  for 
himself  how  sweet  her  whole  nature  was,  she  became 
his  favorite  at  once ;  and  both  he  and  Mrs.  Brimmer 
insisted  on  Miss  Nancy's  bringing  her  over  to  see  them 
as  often  as  she  could,  and  making  their  visits  just  as 
long  as  agreeable.  And  it  came  about,  in  time,  that 
she  staid  with  the  minister's  family  a  great  deal  — 
insomuch  that  the  rest  of  the  children  at  Dovecote  grew 
often  weary  of  her  absence,  and  suffered  her  departure 
with  much  protestation  and  wretchedness. 

This  bee  of  Mr.  Brimmer's  led  to  many  a  happy  day 
for  the  child.  It  added  to  her  list  of  friends,  and  added 
some  strong  and  profitable  ones.  And  Milly  grew  more 
and  more  contented  in  her  new  life  continually. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

BILLY  STOKES  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

THE  remainder  of  the  winter  wore  slowly  away. 
During  all  this  time,  Milly  had  not  seen  her  friend 
Daisy,  though  old  Jarvie  came  occasionally  about  the 
house  to  dispose  of  his  baskets  and  herbs.  The  days 
were  growing  warmer  and  longer,  and  finally  spring 
itself  smiled  in  the  sky,  and  burst  laughingly  out  of  the 
ground. 

Billy  Stokes  was  coming  home  late  one  evening,  — 
it  was  getting  to  be  just  about  a  year  since  Milly's 
going  away  to  Byeboro',  —  whistling  his  way  along 
down  the  narrow  street  where  his  mother  lived,  and 
thinking  of  nobody  so  much  as  her  and  Milly,  when 
a  ragged  girl  accosted  him  with  extended  hand,  asking 
him  for  charity.  It  was  a  new  appeal  for  Billy  to  hear ; 
and  he  drew  up  before  her,  looking  her  steadily  in  the 
face. 

"What!"  said  he,  after  she  had  got  across  the 
threshold  of  her  story,  "  hain't  you  got  any  home  ? " 

"  No,"  said  the  girl.  "  I'm  hungry,  too.  If  you'll 
only  get  me  a  crust  —  any  thing  to  keep  me  from 
stealing ! " 

"  If  a  crust  of  bread'll  do  that,"  he  answered,  "  then 
a  crust  of  bread  you  sh'll  have,  and  a  good  deal  besides. 
Come  along  with  me  ! " 

The  girl  walked  on  by  his  side,  filling  his  ears  with 
the  fragmentary  stories  of  her  life  and  experience,  to 

14  *  (161) 


162  DOVECOTE. 

which  at  the  time  he  however  gave  little  heed,  but  con- 
ducted her  straight  to  the  door  of  the  house  where  he 
lived. 

"  Now  all  you've  got  to  do,"  said  he,  "  is  to  follow 
me." 

And  they  tramped  along  through  the  dark  hall,  finally 
reaching  the  door  of  the  Stokes's  domicile. 

"  Mother,  here  !  "  he  called  to  Mrs.  Stokes,  still  hold- 
ing on  by  the  door  and  pointing  to  the  stranger.  "  This 
girl  says  she's  hungry ;  and  unless  somebody  feeds  her, 
she'll  steal ! " 

"  Steal  ?•"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stokes.     "  Steal  ? " 

"  I  hope  I  shan't  have  to,"  answered  the  girl ;  "  but 
which  is  hardest — to  do  that,  or  starve  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  no  need  o'  doin'  either,"  said  Mrs. 
Stokes,  setting  instantly  about  getting  together  the 
fragments  of  their  dinner  and  placing  them  before  her. 

The  light  fell  in  her  face  :  it  was  that  same  freckled 
face.  She  took  off'  her  bonnet :  it  was  that  same  red 
hair.  The  beggar  girl  was  Snarly  Moll !  No  one  who 
had  ever  seen  her  could  be  at  a  loss  to  recognize  her. 

Mrs.  Stokes  told  her  kindly  to  sit  up  and  eat  what 
she  wanted,  an  invitation  that  needed  no  repetition. 

Moll  immediately  drew  before  the  table  and  eat  like 
one  nearly  famished. 

"  I  never'll  turn  the  poor  away  from  my  door,"  said 
Mrs.  Stokes,  darning  doggedly  on  the  heel  of  one  of 
Billy's  stockings.  "  I  know  myself  what  it  is  to  be 
poor ;  and  nobody  feels  that  sort  o'  sympathy  for  hungry 
and  destitute  folks  that  hungry  and  destitute  folks  does 
themselves.  Where  did  you  come  from  ? "  she  con- 
tinued. 

Snarly  Moll  had  now  quite  finished  her  meal.  She 
therefore  turned  round  to  her  hospitable  questioner,  and 


BILLY    STOKES    AND    HIS    FRIEND.  163 

prepared  to  make  a  full  and  satisfactory  answer  to  the 
interrogatory. 

"  From  Byeboro',"  answered  the  girl 

"  Byeboro' !  "  exclaimed  Billy. 

"  Byebaro'  !  "  added  his  mother,  with  still  more  em- 
phasis. 

"  Have  you  been  there  ? "  Moll  was  induced  to  ask. 

"  Certain  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Stokes. 

"  Know  any  body  there  ?  " 

"  Know  any  body  there  !  I  guess  I  know  the  Trev- 
elyns  ! " 

"  Wai,  but  they're  gone  now,  so  they  say." 

"  Gone  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stokes  again,  uplifting  both 
palms. 

"  Yes  ;  Mr.  Trevelyn  killed  himself " 

"  Killed  himself?  "' 

"  And  they  broke  all  up." 

"  What  can  have  become  o'  Milly  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Stokes.  "  O,  poor  Milly  !  I  wish  you'd  staid  here  with 
me.  You'd  been  a  sight  better  off,  I  know.  Killed 
himself,  did  you  say  ?  Mr.  Trevelyn  kill  himself?  I'd 
never  ha'  believed  it !  " 

"  He's  the  same  man,  mother,  as  shot  himself  and 
another  man  at  the  hotel  here,  a  good  time  ago,"  said 
Billy.  "  I  remember  somethin'  about  it  now.  I'd  for- 
got all  what  his  name  was ;  there's  so  many  things  to 
remember  nowdays.  I  wonder,  mother,  where  Milly 
is?" 

"  Did  you  know  her  ?  "  asked  Snarly  Moll,  looking  at 
Billy. 

"  Know  her  ?  I  guess  I  did  !  She  lived  here  once, 
and  I  guess  I  use'  to  know  her  some  then  !  " 

"  Did  you  ever  know  her  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stokes,  in  a 
very  excited  way. 


164  DOVECOTE. 

"  Know  her  ?     Yes'm ;  she  lived  with  me,  too  ! " 

"  Now  do  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Stokes.  "  And  where 
was  that,  pray  ?  Is  she  livin'  there  yet  ?  If  she  is,  I'll 
go  straight  off  and  bring  her  back  here  agin !  Where 
was  it  ? " 

"  'Twas  in  Byeboro'  poorhouse,"  answered  Moll, 
rather  sadly.  Born  as  she  was  in  a  poorhouse,  she  yet 
felt  backward  in  acquainting  people  with  her  mis- 
fortunes. 

"  In  the  poorhouse  !  "  Mrs.  Stokes  was  obliged  once 
more  to  exclaim.  "  How  came  she  there  ?  " 

"  Same's  /come  there,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  s'pose  she 
hadn't  no  better  home." 

"  Poor  darlin' !     If  I'd  but  known  it !  " 

"'I  wish  you  had,"  said  Moll,  "  for  you  would  ha'  seen 
that  she  was  taken  care  of.  But  nobody  ain't  sure  o' 
that  now.  She's  gone  agin." 

"What  is  all  this  you're  tellin'  of  me?  Gone! 
Where's  she  gone  ?  Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  No'm,  I  don't.  I  wish  I  did.  I  guess  nobody  don't 
know  whether  she's  dead  or  alive.  She  slipped  off  one 
night,  and  never's  been  heard  on  sence  ;  and  'twan't  a 
great  while  after  that 't  I  come  out  o'  the  poorhouse  my- 
self, the  same  way." 

"  Run  away  ? "  asked  Billy. 

"  Run  away,"  answered  Moll. 

Mrs.  Stokes  sat  divided  between  wonder  and  grief. 
She  began  seriously  to  reproach  herself  for  having  suf- 
fered Milly  to  go  out  of  her  hands  at  all.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Moll,  while  her  thoughts  were  all  along 
the  road  by  which  she  imagined  the  little  vagabond 
must  have  travelled  to  reach  the  city.  She  was  tem- 
porarily in  a  dream ;  but  it  was  a  dream  entirely  of 
wonder. 


BILLY    STOKES    AND    HIS    FR.IEND.  165 

"  I  wonder  where  she  is,"  said  Billy,  evidently  trying 
to  get  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

"  And  so  do  I,"  added  Moll.  "  She  was  a  little 
beauty,  she  was,  and  every  body  loved  her." 

"  We  all  did,"  said  Billy. 

"  Yes,  so  we  did,"  added  his  mother. 

"  /  did,"  continued  Moll.  "  But  she's  gone  now.  I 
hope  she's  got  a  good  home  somewhere.  She  deserved 
one,  if  ever  any  body  did." 

"  Don't  you  know  where  the  Trevelyn  folks  be  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Stokes.  "  Don't  they  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  After  they  broke  up,  I  never  heerd  folks  say  nq 
more  about  'em.  They  went  off;  but  I  never  knew 
where." 

"  It  seems  so  strange,"  again  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stokes, 
slow  to  get  the  better  of  her  wonder,  "  to  see  any  body 
who's  seen  Milly ;  and  seen  her  in  the  poorhouse,  too  ! 
Jest  to  think  on  it !  " 

They  insisted  that  Snarly  Moll  should  stay  with  them 
that  night,  and  after  that  they  thought  she  might  in 
some  way  be  provided  for.  The  girl  took  a  great  liking 
to  the  baby,  bestowing  marked  attention  upon  her  —  a 
fact  which  neither  Mrs.  Stokes  nor  Billy  were  slow  to 
notice,  and  which  might  have  had  not  a  little  influence 
in  determining  their  feelings  finally  towards  the 
stranger. 

They  found  some  kind  of  work  between  them  for  her 
to  do,  after  that,  and  did  what  was  in  their  power  to 
provide  her  with  a  place  that  she  might  temporarily  call 
"  home."  Her  story  was  listened  to  by  them  with 
eagerness,  while  she  earned  all  their  sympathy  in  the 
recital  of  her  many  misfortunes. 

Her  manners  were  quite  odd  in  the  eyes  of  the  hum- 
ble little  family  of  Mrs.  Stokes ;  yet  they  soon  grew 


166  DOVECOTE. 

accustomed  to  them.  Her  singular  devotion  to  the  baby 
seemed  to  supply  every  shortcoming. 

"  And  to  think,"  said  the  baby's  mother  to  herself, 
"  that  that  very  child  was  loved  jest  the  same  by  Milly  ! 
Poor  little  thing  !  I  wonder  where  you  can  be  now  ?  " 

Before  spring  had  far  advanced,  Snarly  Moll  came  to 
be  quite  an  essential  in  the  Stokes  household.  In  her 
way,  no  one  could  be  smarter  than  she.  She  meant  to 
be  what  people  call  "  smart  as  a  steel  trap  ; "  and  some- 
times Mrs.  Stokes  was  obliged  to  give  her  gentle 
checks,  that  she  might  not  seem  to  get  on  faster  than 
would  be  for  the  interest  of  all. 

Billy  liked  her  more  and  more,  and  kept  on  selling 
his  newspaper  wares  rejoicing. 

Yet  Milly  was  the  subject  of  serious  thought  through- 
out the  little  circle.  Not  a  day  but  they  talked  of  her 
among  themselves  with  deepest  sympathy  and  feeling. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  SPRING  MORNING. 

DOWN  the  long  lanes,  leafy  and  green,  —  over  the 
sloping  meadows,  spread  anew  with  verdure,  —  into  the 
swelling  woods,  where  luxuriant  sprays  begin  to  ramble, 
—  beside  laughing  water  brooks,  threading  through 
meadow,  furze,  and  fen,  —  there  go  we  on  this  golden 
morning  of  spring ! 

There  is  a  new  life  in  every  thing.  Earth  has  taken 
a  new  lease  of  existence. 

Breaths  that  are  with  fragrance  laden 

Beat  upon  the  fevered  brow, 
And  the  pulses  leap  full  wildly 

With  the  new  life  in  them  now. 
Life  is  in  the  earth  and  waters ; 

Life  jets  up  in  every  tree ; 
Every  thing  is  leaping  upward 

In  a  life  all  fresh  and  free  ! 

The  bright  sun  throws  his  arrows  from  a  full  quiver, 
and  just  stops  to  touch  pictures  that  never  human  hand 
can  copy.  The  brooks  are  brimming,  and  gems  of 
landscape  are  swimming  in  their  smiling  faces.  Where 
osiers,  and  sedges,  and  rushes  grow  by  the  water's 
brink,  green-coated  frogs  are  sounding  the  deep  bass  or 
twanging  the  discordant  treble.  Lilycups  sit  floating 
on  the  breast  of  the  lake,  like  stately  little  palaces  of 
ivory,  then*  bases  washed  by  the  refluent  wave.  In 
little  glens  the  grass  grows  of  a  deeper  green,  where 

(167) 


168  DOVECOTE. 

hidden  rills  ooze  softly  through  the  dark  turf  to  the 
river  or  the  pond.  Banks  of  emerald  are  enamelled  with 
buttercups  and  daisies  ;  and  down  in  the  moist  meadows 
yellow  cowslips  draw  their  gaudy  scarfs  about  their 
shoulders,  and  sit  like  coquettes  admiring  their  own 
charms. 

Bees  are  driving  briskly  a-field,  hunting  the  thyme 
and  the  clover  beds,  from  which  they  return  laden  with 
golden  spoils.  In  the  sprays  the  birds  are  building  and 
twittering,  making  their  own  mortar  and  finishing  their 
own  homes.  The  swallow,  with  his  steel-blue  wings, 
cleaves  the  air  above  the  pond  and  disappears  again. 
Where  the  willow  and  the  hazel  hang  low  over  the 
water,  little  round  nests  are  growing  for  the  callow 
young. 

Tribes  of  gay  insects,  decked  in  colors  of  purple,  and 
crimson,  and  gold,  are  skimming  upon  the  surfaces  of 
little  coves,  whose  smooth  mirrors  the  glancing  fish 
break  with  a  leap  and  a  plash ;  or  go  sailing,  like  tiny 
argosies  full  freighted  with  treasure,  over  the  glistening 
grass  and  the  brilliant  beds  of  flowers. 

In  the  field  the  oxen  are  plodding  slowly  down  the 
freshly-opened  furrows,  throwing  back  the  thick  turf, 
and  turning  up  the  rich  black  soil  to  the  sun.  You  can 
hear  the  sturdy  "  gee  "  and  "  haw,"  and  catch  the  echo 
of  the  shrill  whistle. 

Heifers  with  sprouting  horns  butt  idly  near  the  barn- 
yard wall,  and  occasionally  stop  to  snuff  the  fresh  spring 
odors  from  the  distant  pastures.  Hither  and  yon  the 
white  lambs  are  leaping  and  frisking,  their  patient  dams 
gazing  at  them  with  apparent  delight,  if  not  downright 
astonishment.  Stately  oxen,  turned  out  for  fattening, 
gaze  thoughtfully  at  you,  lifting  their  frizzled  fronts  and 
branching  horns.  The  cows  are  lowing  for  their  calves 


A    SPRING    MORNING.  169 

in  far-off  places ;  and  the  sound  of  their  cries  mixes 
pleasantly  with  the  thousand  other  sounds  of  this  burst- 
ing and  brilliant  morning  of  spring. 

Speckled  trout  are  leaping  in  the  glistening  brooks 
at  the  venturous  flies  ;  and  little  minnows  are  scudding 
in  shoals  from  one  spot  to  another,  or  playing  in  the 
shadows  just  under  the  edge  of  the  old  rustic  bridge. 
The  big,  round  wheel  at  the  mill  is  plunging,  and  dash- 
ing, and  dipping  into  the  frothy  water,  making  the  huge 
stones  go  round  and  round  that  grind  the  golden  grain. 
Its  rumbling  echoes  roll  steadily  up  through'  the  wood- 
ed valley,  while  from  the  great  wheel  itself  drip  rows 
of  glistening  pearls.  The  swift  milltail  runs  far  out  into 
the  foaming  river,  making  eddies,  and  cross  currents, 
and  whirling  dimples  in  the  stream. 

In  the  woods  squirrels  are  chattering,  whisking  their 
bushy  tails  as  they  frisk  from  tree  to  tree.  There  are 
the  old  rabbit  snares,  and  there  are  the  quail  traps,  set 
so  carefully  in  the  autumn  before,  beneath  the  tall 
chestnuts  and  just  at  the  edges  of  the  buckwheat  fields. 
Straggling  cattle  are  breaking  down  the  tender  limbs  of 
the  birches  with  their  brawny  sides,  browsing  as  the*y 
go,  and  stopping  to  look  at  the  intruder  with  a  gaze  of 
deep  seriousness.  The  jay  is  screaming  in  the  tops  of 
the  highest  trees,  and  the  partridge  is  just  beginning  his 
muffled  drum.  A  glassy  fountain  swells  at  your  feet, 
and,  overflowing  its  soft  bounds  of  turf,  goes  trickling 
down  through  the  narrow  throats  of  the  little  gorges, 
making  a  low  melody  like  the  ringing  of  silver  bells. 

The  old  elms  toss  high  their  leafy  crests,  showering 
down  their  dingy  blossoms  on  the  roofs  and  over  the 
yard,  as  their  giant  arms  sway  protectingly  in  the  wind. 
There  are  odors,  too  fragrant  to  describe,  sailing  up  to 
your  nostrils  on  the  sluggish  currents  of  the  breeze  from 
15 


170  VOVECOTE. 

many  a  bank  of  violets  and  many  a  sea  of  lilies.  The 
flowering  lilacs  at  the  garden  gate  load  the  air  about 
the  house  with  their  fragrance ;  and  children  are  pluck- 
ing the  blossoms  in  heavy  bunches,  and  sticking  them 
in  broken-nosed  pitchers  for  flower  pots. 

In  the  house  the  windows  are  opened  wide,  that  the 
breath  of  the  fresh  spring  morning  may  draw  in.  The 
walls,  and  the  oaken  beams,  and  the  ceiling  have  all 
been  newly  whitewashed  again,  till  the  rooms  smell  as 
sweet  as  the  spring  airs  in  the  yard  and  the  garden. 
Asparagus  boughs  are  stuck  in  with  evergreen  at  the 
fireplaces,  and  carpets  have  been  taken  up,  that  the 
hard,  oaken  floors  may  be  regularly  washed. 

The  pinks  line  the  walks  in  the  garden,  mingled  in 
with  carnations,  and  crocuses,  and  narcissuses ;  and 
they  blush  to  find  themselves  looking  so  gay  in  the  glad 
morning  sunlight  On  the  currant  bushes  hang  myriad 
clusters  of  green  fruit  yet  unformed ;  and  bits  of  muslin 
are  strewn  over  some  of  the  branches  to  bleach  and  dry. 

The  fowls  are  let  loose ;  and  they  wallow,  as  if  it 
were  a  delightful  privilege,  in  the  mellow  mould. 
Chickens  of  the  last  year's  growth  lie  banked  up  in  the 
strips  of  warm  sunshine  under  the  fences  and  walls, 
their  long,  yellow  legs  stretched  out  lazily  behind  them 
in  the  dirt  and  sand. 

The  roses  are  blowing  —  some  red,  some  purple,  and 
some  a  melting  of  all  the  tints  in  the  florist's  vocabulary. 
Tulips,  like  other  Ganymedes,  stand  holding  their  ruddy 
goblets  to  catch  the  rain  and  the  dew.  Honeysuckles 
are  clambering  up  by  loose  and  decayed  boards, 
and  winding  themselves  affectionately  about  rails,  and 
posts,  and  pilasters.  Woodbines  are  thatching  low 
roofs,  and  hanging  their  glossy  green  leaves  in  dense 
masses  over  brown  eaves  and  latticed  windows. 


A    SPRING    MORNING.  171 

There  are  pale,  white  blossoms  by  the  million  on  the 
plum  trees,  and  ruddy  blows  in  like  number  on  the 
rough  stems  of  the  apple  trees.  And  the  bees  keep  up 
their  busy  hum,  buzzing  in  swarms  in  and  out  the 
branches.  And  the  drum  of  the  far-off  waterfall  chimes 
in  strangely  with  the  sound,  lulling  the  senses  to  slum- 
ber, and  lapping  the  soul  in  a  sweet  Elysium. 

Every  syllable  of  the  poet  has  a  deep  truth  in  it  now, 
as  he  says,  — 

"  From  the  hot,  angry,  crowding  courts  of  doubt 
Within  the  breast,  it  is  sweet  to  escape,  and  soothe 
The  soul  in  looking  upon  natural  beauty. 
O,  Earth,  like  man,  her  son,  is  half  divine  !  " 

Gushing  out  with  freshness,  and  beauty,  and  glory, 
are  all  these  bright  spring  days.  Like  brimming  foun- 
tains, they  swim  with  sweet  pictures.  Like  babbling 
brooks,  they  are  full  of  joy.  It  seems,  indeed,  a  "  bridal 
of  the  earth  and  sky,"  then. 

It  is  on  these  mornings,  when  the  fogs,  like  fleecy 
lambs,  have  been  folded  from  the  mountains  and  the 
hillsides,  that  the  spirit  goes  forth  to  the  stirring  in- 
fluences of  the  hour.  The  heart  is  freshened  with  the 
morning  dew.  The  soul  revels  in  the  round  of  charm- 
ing scenes  and  sounds. 

Standing  on  the  hills,  the  spirits  grow  elevated  at 
contemplating  the  many  sights  that  crowd  to  the  eye. 
There  is  a  quick  bound  to  the  pulses,  and  a  brisker 
beating  of  the  heart.  The  feelings  glow,  and  the 
thoughts  quicken,  and  the  fancies  fire  at  the  sight  of 
the  living  and  breathing  landscape.  The  meadow 
brook,  hurrying  from  its  mountain  hiding-place,  and 
winding  down  in  a  silver  flood  through  the  deep 
field  of  emerald,  —  the  long  lines  of  fruit  trees,  set  out 


172  DOVECOTE. 

in  regular  rows,  and  every  row  liveried  in  the  bright 
colors  of  the  season,  —  the  white  and  brown  cottages, 
squatted  in  the  scooped  hollows,  and  intrenched  behind 
stockades  of  flowering  bushes  and  fruit-bearing  boughs, 

—  the  acres  of  green  meadow,  —  the  vast  reaches  of 
rolling  upland,  —  the  dense  masses  of  darkened  wood, 

—  and  the  checkered  patches  of  ploughed  farm  land,  — 
all  these  awake  the  heart  to  new  life  and  to  fresh 
ecstasy. 

In  the  alembic  of  the  thoughts,  at  such  a  time,  there 
is  produced  one  single  thought,  more  elevated  and  more 
spiritual  than  all  the  rest.  It  takes  hold,  for  the  mo- 
ment, upon  the  whole  being,  moulding  and  controlling 
it  It  washes  away  the  dikes  of  conventional  and  con- 
strained feeling,  and  fills  the  soul  with  nothing  but  its 
own  clear  wave.  That  single  thought  is  of  GOD. 

The  secret  influence  comes  upon  you  from  the  very 
air  you  take  into  your  nostrils.  It  flows  into  your  heart 
on  the  dancing  wavelets  of  the  waterbrooks.  It  sails 
into  your  soul  with  the  bright  tints  that  make  such  pic- 
tures in  your  eyes.  You  drink  it  in  unconsciously  with 
the  dews  that  freshen  the  fragrance  of  the  lilacs,  and 
the  roses,  and  the  apple  blossoms.  It  surrounds  you 
like  a  blessed  mantle,  as  the  yellow  sunshine  wraps  you 
in  its  genial  folds. 

The  spring  morning  is  a  favored  time.  Then  are  all 
God's  created  things  to  us  most  in  seeming  harmony. 
Buds  and  birds,  bees  and  brooks,  they  have  but  a  com- 
mon bliss  ;  and  the  tie  that  thus  holds  them  is  golden. 
I  see  the  same  glory  in  the  dew-besprent  grass,  and  in 
the  lily  from  which  I  shake  the  rain,  that  shines  in  the 
bright  cloud  that  drifts  through  heaven.  I  find  the 
same  glittering  fancies,  and  the  same  gushing  feelings, 
in  the  deep,  green  hedgerows,  and  down  the  leafy  lanes, 


A    SPRING    MORNING.  173 

that  weave  themselves  in  the  starry  vestment  of  the 
night,  or  break  their  bounds  when  the  great  eastern 
gates  are  opened,  and  "  jocund  day  stands  tiptoe  on  the 
misty  mountain  tops."  In  each  and  all  there  glows  a 
living  charm.  Pray  Heaven  your  own  heart  may  not 
be  dead  to  the  influences  ! 

Not  less  than  this  is  the  memory  of  a  spring  morning 
at  Dovecote.  Would  that  tongue  or  pen  could  seize  the 
rich  colors  that  clothe  these  memories,  as  they  rise 
again  to  the  heart  of  him  who  loves  so  well  to  feed 
upon  them  all ! 

15* 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

A  DAY  AT  THE  BROOKS. 

WHERE  twisting  brooks,  like  silver  threads,  go  bab- 
bling and  braiding  through  the  lowland  —  where  the 
willow  buds  start  early  in  the  spring,  and  the  maples 
don  their  red  jackets,  and  the  cowslips  dally  with  the 
laughing  water  —  where  smokes  go  up  from  the  ground, 
straggling  along  through  ravines  and  climbing  the  bared 
hillsides  —  where  frogs  begin  to  whir  seasonably,  and 
speckled  turtles  to  poke  their  slim  heads  out  of  the  win- 
ter's mud  —  there  I  betake  myself  with  the  first  genial 
days  of  spring.  Not  until  the  heart  of  winter  is  broke, 
and  then  the  time  has  come. 

Later  than  this  in  the  season,  however,  the  charms  of 
earth  seem  to  be  in  blossom.  There  is  a  profuseness  of 
beauty  every  where.  The  airs  blow  blandly,  and  cool 
the  fevers  of  the  blood.  The  voices  come  in  still  and 
melodious  circles  to  the  ear.  The  sounds  of  life,  rising 
freely  on  every  hand,  crowd  about  the  soul  with  influ- 
ences never  so  healthful  and  happy. 

There  is  a  quiet  pleasure  in  following  up  the  brooks 
on  a  spring  day,  different  from  all  other  pleasures.  It 
takes  you  through  the  grandest  and  the  sweetest 
scenery.  It  fills  your  eyes,  your  ears,  and  your  heart, 
till  all  are  surfeited.  It  opens  the  sluices  of  your  na- 
ture, closed  by  the  frigid  conventionalisms  of  life,  and 
lets  the  tide  of  natural  influences  set  freely  in. 

With  a  rod  across  your  shoulder,  you  shall  nowhere 

(174) 


A    DAY    AT    THE    BROOKS.  175 

find  such  simple  and  such  sufficient  delight.  Threading 
your  difficult  way  among  the  close-growing  bushes, 
leaping  from  stone  to  stone  through  the  oozing  quag- 
mires, fighting  your  passage  against  resisting  brush  and 
brake,  and  now  rising  a  little  headland,  or  coming 
unexpectedly  out  upon  an  open  plain,  with  the  living 
brook  flashing  in  the  sun  before  you,  your  heart  shall 
be  stirred  from  its  depths  with  influences  of  which,  at 
other  times  and  in  other  places,  you  are  but  too  igno- 
rant. It  is  well  to  go  on  these  excursions,  tracing  the 
brooks  to  their  fountains. 

Through  the  trees,  now  enrobing  themselves  anew, 
are  to  be  seen  vistas  of  enchantment.  In  the  skies 
swim  visions  of  fresh  glory  and  beauty.  On  the  land- 
scape rests  a  golden  halo,  through  which  gleam  bright 
edges  of  pictures,  that  never  wholly  entered  the  eye  or 
even  the  imagination. 

The  waterbrooks,  after  which  the  heart  that  is  truly 
in  love  with  nature  pants,  fill  the  eye  and  the  soul  with 
their  ceaseless  little  joys.  They  come  racing  down 
from  the  thickets,  and  the  jungles,  and  the  copses, — 
of  hazel,  and  birch,  and  willow,  —  and  begin  their 
laughing  course  to  the  sea.  Branches  that  drape  their 
banks  dip  gently  in  the  limpid  flood,  and  shower  down, 
as  they  lift  themselves,  rows  of  dripping  pearls  again. 
Watercresses  that  grow  near  their  margins,  leaning 
down  to  drink  of  the  strength  of  their  streams,  tremble 
and  quiver  against  the  course  of  the  waters,  and  trem- 
ble and  quiver  all  through  the  day.  Little  birds  seek 
out  sly  nooks  along  their  borders,  where  they  may  rear 
their  fledglings  within  sound  of  the  lulling  waters,  and 
without  the  reach  of  malice  and  molestation. 

There  is  a  soothing,  dreamy,  beguiling  music  in  their 


176  DOVECOTE. 

dashing,  and  plashing,  and  rippling.  It  fills  the  heart 
with  a  flood  of  the  most  liquid  melodies.  It  washes  it 
clear  of  the  tainting  world  thoughts,  that  do  but  deform 
so  fair  a  structure.  I  can  sit  on  a  little  headland  by  the 
brookside/and  feel  the  change  that  is  going  on  within. 
The  brook  will  do  it  all  —  the  brook  and  its  influences. 
Yet  the  heart  should  be  properly  attuned  beforehand. 

The  leap  of  a  frog,  as  he  throws  out  his  long  legs 
behind  him,  and  plunges  beneath  the  water  to  the 
opposite  bank,  will  start  you  to  a  new  train  of  thought. 
The  plash  of  a  lively  troutlet,  as  he  springs  boldly  from 
the  surface  for  his  prey,  will  excite  you  to  the  strangest 
emotions.  The  babbling  of  the  sylvan  nymph  itself, 
singing  its  own  idle  song  as  down  through  the  meadow 
it  goes,  will  fill  your  ears  with  broken  snatches  of  the 
most  charming  melodies. 

By  the  brookside  one  learns  much  that  nowhere  else 
he  can  learn.  Nay,  much  that  should  never  have  been 
received  into  the  heart  will  here  be  unlearned  again. 
It  will  thus  be  better  for  the  afterlife.  It  will  pave  a 
clear  way  for  good  intentions,  and  high  resolves,  and 
pure  thoughts. 

One  learns,  above  all  else,  contentment  here  as  it 
can  hardly  be  learned  elsewhere.  There  is  every  sur- 
rounding influence  to  make  the  school  a  good  one ;  and 
the  precepts,  too,  are  by  no  means  formal  or  trouble- 
some. They  fall  upon  the  heart  like  still  summer  rains 
on  fallow  ground.  In  these  dear  old  places,  the  words 
of  that  charming  philosopher  and  patient  angler,  Izaak 
Walton,  come  to  me ;  and  such  words  will  never  tire 
one  with  repetition  :  — 

"  That  very  hour  which  you  were  absent  from  me,  I 
sat  down  under  a  willow  by  the  water  side,  and  consid- 


A    DAY    AT    THE    BROOKS.  177 

ered'what  you  had  told  me  of  the  owner  of  that  pleas- 
ant meadow  in  which  you  left  me — that  he  has  a  plen- 
tiful estate,  and  not  a  heart  to  think  so  ;  that  he  has,  at 
this  time,  many  lawsuits  depending ;  and  that  they  both 
damped  his  mirth  and  took  up  so  much  of  his  time  and 
thoughts  that  he  himself  had  not  leisure  to  take  that 
sweet  comfort  I,  who  pretended  no  title  to  them,  took 
in  his  fields  ;  for  I  could  there  sit  quietly,  and,  looking 
in  the  water,  see  some  fishes  sport  themselves  in  the 
silver  streams,  others  leaping  at  flies  of  several  shapes 
and  colors.  Looking  on  the  hills,  I  could  behold  them 
spotted  with  woods  and  groves ;  looking  down  upon  the 
meadows,- 1  could  see,  here  a  boy  gathering  lilies  and 
lady-smocks,  and  there  a  girl  cropping  culverkeys  and 
cowslips,  all  to  make  garlands  suitable  to  this  present 
month  of  May. 

"  I  say,  as  I  sat  thus  joying  in  my  own  happy  condi- 
tion, and  pitying  this  poor  rich  man  that  owned  this  and 
many  other  pleasant  groves  and  meadows  about  me,  I 
did  then  thankfully  remember  what  my  Savior  said  — 
that  the  meek  possess  the  earth,  or,  rather,  they  enjoy 
what  others  possess  and  enjoy  not;  for  anglers  and 
meek-spirited  men  are  free  from  those  high,  those  rest- 
less thoughts  which  corrode  the  sweets  of  life ;  and 
they,  and  they  only,  can  say,  as  the  poet  has  happily 
expressed  it,  — 

'  Hail,  blest  estate  of  lowliness  ! 

Happy  enjoyments  of  such  minds 
As,  rich  in  self-contentedness, 

Can,  like  the  reeds  in  roughest  "winds, 
By  yielding,  make  that  blow  but  small 
By  which  proud  oaks  and  cedars  fall.' " 

Was  ever  an  argument  for  contentment  so  neatly 


178  DOVECOTE. 

and  so  gently  put?  and  by  an  angler,  a  brook  lover, 
too ! 

When  I  used  to  turn  my  weary  feet  homeward  from 
the  hillsides  at  night,  just  as  the  gloaming  began  to  set 
into  the  valleys,  I  felt  that  I  had  spent  a  day  as  it  could 
nowhere  else  be  spent.  As  I  dabbled  my  hands  in  the 
running  water,  I  made  secret  promises  to  myself  and 
the  seclusion  that  I  would  come  back  to  the  spot  again 
at  no  far-off  time.  While  I  strung  my  speckled  trout,  or 
turned  them  over  in  my  osier  basket  to  count  them,  or 
banded  together  anew  the  wild  flowers  I  had  gathered 
on  my  way,  I  did  not  forget  also  to  count  up  the  pure 
and  hearty  pleasures  of  the  day,  and  string  them  along 
in  my  memory,  where  they  could  readily  be  mine  when 
I  wanted  them  again. 

In  such  a  mood  danced  what  follows  from  my  heart. 
If  it  can  claim  no  other  title  to  existence,  it  at  least  has 
that  of  being  born  of  an  honest  and  an  earnest  feeling. 


You  may  look  for  me  when  the  south  wind 

Is  blowing  on  meadow  and  lea, 
And  the  waterbrooks  slip  from  their  chains, 

And  laugh  in  their  gladness  and  glee. 
When  the  buds  have  burst  out  from  the  boughs, 

And  the  birch  tassels  to  and  fro  swing, 
You  may  look  for  me  then  by  the  bridge  ; 

For  I  shall  be  there  in  the  spring. 

When  the  gadding  Tines  sway  in  the  wind, 

And  the  sprays  drop  their  shadows  below ; 
When  the  shoots  and  the  tendrils  are  green, 

And  the  grass  is  beginning  to  grow ; 
When  the  frog  shrilly  pipes  at  the  pool ; 

When  the  woods  with  the  bird  voices  ring,  — 
You  may  look  for  me  then  at  the  brooks ; 

For  I  shall  be  there  in  the  spring. 


A    DAY    AT    THE    BROOKS.  179 

You  may  look  for  me  when  the  fresh  flowers 

Are  springing  from  upland  and  wood ; 
When  the  cowslips  the  broad  meadows  gem 

For  many  and  many  a  rood. 
When  the  brook  willows  put  on  their  green ; 

When  the  insects  are  all  on  the  wing,  — 
You  may  look  for  me  then  in  the  mead ; 

For  I  shall  be  there  in  the  spring. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


AN  aunt  is  apt  to  be  a  notable  woman.  She  is  either 
very  much  in  a  household,  or  else  veryjittle  indeed. 
With  my  aunt,  the  former  happened  to  be  the  case. 

I  picture  her  now  —  a  maiden  lady  of  the  old  school, 
with  liberal  feelings  towards  us  children,  overflowing 
with  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  full  of  odd  sayings 
and  witty  conceits  that  smacked  of  the  olden  time,  frol- 
icking often  with  the  rest  of  us,  always  looking  oiU  for 
our  little  comforts,  and  adopting  one  wee  child  for  her 
special  pet ;  what  aunt  was  ever  more  than  she  ? 

Early  in  the  morning  she  struck  up  her  light,  and  went 
down  to  see  that  the  fires  were  properly  made,  and  the 
preparations  for  breakfast  were  properly  begun.  It  was 
often  quite  as  early  as  four  o'clock  when  the  flash  of  her 
light  danced  along  the  passages  from  the  chambers,  and 
I  was  waked  at  catching  the  sound  of  her  shoes  on  the 
uncarpeted  back  stairs,  as  she  went  trippingly  down. 

No  one  ever  loved  the  out-door  country  life  more  than 
she.  She  had  care  of  all  the  poultry  —  ducks,  hens, 
and  turkeys  ;  and  in  the  early  days  of  spring  it  was  her 
special  office  to  hunt  up  the  stolen  nests  of  the  latter 
in  the  woods,  and  among  the  ledges,  and  in  the  bud- 
ding birches,  so  that  the  young  poults  might  not  get 
strayed  away  when  they  came  through  the  shell.  She 
reared  young  chicks,  brood  upon  brood ;  and,  as  the 
days  grew  unusually  wet  and  cold,  in  the  spring,  she 

(180) 


MY    AUNT.  181 

brought  in  one  little  callow  nursling  after  another  in  her 
apron,  shivering  and  bitterly  lamenting,  and  warmed 
them  carefully  in  baskets  stuffed  with  cotton  or  wool. 
Such  pets  as  she  made  of  some  of  them,  the  like  was 
hardly  seen  before  !  It  would  have  made  one  laugh  a 
long  time,  as  it  always  did  us,  to  see  her  plump  a  little 
downy-headed  chick,  scarce  bigger  than  a  small  lump 
of  dough,  into  her  mouth;  and  we  screamed,  till  we 
could  not  control  ourselves,  when  the  frightened  thing 
gave  a  muffled  "  peep  "  in  her  mouth,  like  a  living  voice 
from  a  tomb  ! 

On  the  clear  June  mornings  she  was  a-field  before 
even  the  dews  were  dried  from  the  grass,  hunting  for 
the  estray  droves  of  her  turkeys,  that  delighted  to  roam 
off  into  the  woods  and  over  the  hillsides ;  and  I  have 
many  a  time  followed  her  far-off  wanderings  with  my 
eye,  and  wondered  within  myself  if  any  pleasures  could 
be  purer,  and  healthier,  and  heartier  than  hers. 

She  gathered  chestnuts  with  us  in  the  fall,  as  the 
winds  rattled  them  down  from  the  high  tree  tops  about 
our  heads,  making  us  all  spring  to  our  work  the  livelier ; 
while  she  kept  both  hands  busy  at  her  own  basket, 
and  telling  us  that  she  would .  get  more  than  all  of  us 
together.  She  picked  whortleberries,  too,  in  the  old 
pastures  on  the  side  hill  that  abutted  on  the  river,  and 
her  bark  measures,  baskets,  and  pails  were  always 
filled  first ;  when  she  kindly  came  round  to  each  of  us, 
and  slyly,  and  without  a  word,  slipped  heaped  handfuls 
into  our  baskets. 

She  had  beds  of  marigold,  and  beds  of  thyme,  and 
clumps  of  sage,  and  rows  of  red  and  glossy  peppers 
growing  in  the  garden,  to  the  proper  husbanding  of 
which  not  a  little  of  her  time  was  in  the  autumn  de- 
voted. She  kept  huge  paper  bundles  of  choice  herbs 
16 


182  DOVECOTE. 

stowed  away  under  the  eaves  of  the  garret  and  the 
storeroom,  to  which  she  was  accustomed  to  apply  for 
soothing  consolation  for  some  one  of  us  almost  every 
night  in  the  winter.  And  the  savory  drinks  that  she 
decocted  from  their  leaves,  they  were  enough,  I  used 
to  think,  to  tempt  a  very  sybarite. 

She  always  wore  a  cap,  and,  beside  this,  in  the  very 
cold  winter  mornings,  a  hood,  upon  her  head.  A 
pleasant  expression  sat  continually  on  her  face,  so  that 
there  always  seemed  to  be  sunshine  in  the  room  where 
she  was,  even  in  the  dismalest  of  rainy  days.  There 
was  a  look  of  resignation  in  her  features,  as  if  she  had 
long  ago  made  up  her  mind  to  find  happiness  for  her- 
self in  all  things  just  as  they  came  along. 

I  know  that  I  used  to  wonder  if  others  ever  were 
blessed  with  such  aunts.  I  loved  her,  I  thought,  quite 
as  much  as  I  did  my  own  mother ;  yet  it  must  have 
been  a  somewhat  different  affection.  She  seemed  to 
me  like  a  very  dear  friend,  while  she  was  likewise  a 
very  dear  relation.  In  my  thought  of  her,  and  of  her 
character,  there  was  much  that  properly  belonged  to 
my  estimate  of  my  mother ;  and  much,  also,  that  be- 
longed to  nothing  so  much  as  my  estimate  of  herself. 

She  made  cats'  cradles  with  strings  for  the  children, 
on  her  fingers ;  ana  stocked  the  girls'  playhouses  with 
bits  of  broken  china  that  she  had  hauled  out  of  unknown 
corners ;  and  sang  snatches  of  the  oddest  and  most 
laughable  songs  and  ballads.  We  thought  there  must 
be  nothing  in  the  world  that  she  could  not  do. 

There  was  a  spinning  wheel  in  an  old  chamber,  that 
seemed  to  be  in  an  out-of-the-way  place ;  and  to  thaf 
room  she  used  to  carry  rolls  of  carded  wool  by  the  arm- 
ful, and  turn  it  off  the  spindle  in  threads  of  yarn,  which 
were  afterward  wound  in  balls  and  deposited  in  cedar 


MY    AUNT.  183 

trays.  The  drowsy  hum  of  that  old  spinning  wheel  is 
in  my  ears  now.  The  sound  began  slowly  and  low ; 
then  it  quickened  itself;  then  it  seemed  to  deepen 
as  it  quickened ;  and  then  it  made  an  almost  deafening 
buzz,  till  every  room  in  that  part  of  the  house  was  filled 
with  the  monotonous  roar.  And,  finally,  it  died  away 
again  as  it  had  begun,  till  there  was  nothing  to  be  heard 
but  the  dull  hum  of  the  cord  that  spanned  the  wheel, 
drowsy  and  indistinct. 

I  remember  that  at  times  we  lost  our  patience  alto- 
gether with  the  old  wheel,  and  not  often  with  the  per- 
son who  kept  up  its  music  so  perseveringly.  We  used 
sometimes  to  wish  it  was  out  the  window,  or  any  where 
else,  in  fact,  where  its  buzz,  buzz,  buzz  should  be 
stopped.  I  suppose  we  must  have  got  fairly  sick  of  it. 
It  grew  absolutely  tedious. 

But  I  have  no  such  feelings  now  ! 

I  could  sit  now  by  the  hour,  listening  to  only  that  dull 
sound,  and  feel  myself  happy.  Its  recurring  roll  of 
music  would  carry  me  back  to  the  old  days  that  are 
sunk  and  covered  up  in  the  fog  banks  of  time.  Its  very 
monotony  would  be  sweet  melody  to  me.  It  would 
wake  all  the  old  echoes  that  so  long  have  slept  in  my 
memory.  It  would  bring  before  me  again  the  old  faces, 
the  old  figures,  the  old  voices.  I  should  lose  myself  in 
its  droning  music,  and  my  senses  would  be  lapped  in 
the  quietest  pleasure. 

When  company  came,  there  was  no  one  in  the  house 
more  actively  employed  than  she  in  trying  to  make 
them  happy.  She  had  a  few  words  with  them,  —  gen- 
erally some  pleasant  jest,  —  and  immediately  ran  out  of 
the  room  to  oversee  the  preparations  for  the  table,  or 
whatever  came  along  next  in  order.  Wherever  she 
happened  to  be  found,  with  young  or  old,  or  with  both, 


184  DOVECOTE. 

she  determined  that  enjoyment  should  be  the  first  and 
only  thing  thought  of.  Sometimes  she  seemed  even  to 
outdo  herself,  in  her  desires  to  scatter  happiness  about 
her. 

Would  to  Heaven  there  were  more  of  such  genial 
and  sunny  souls  in  this  clouded  world !  How  much 
smoother  would  every  thing  go  on  for  the  auspicious 
change ! 

Avast  array  of  aunts  —  maiden  aunts  and  spinsters 
—  have  much  to  answer  for.  They  are  generally  given 
to  querulousness  and  investigation,  particularly  to  the 
latter.  A  carriage  cannot  pass  in  the  road  but  they 
must  wonder,  and  so  set  all  the  rest  to  wondering,  who 
is  in  it,  and  where  they  can  be  going,  and  what  can  be 
their  business.  They  pry  their  way  between  others, 
and  pluck  out  somehow  their  dearest  secrets.  They 
deal  in  large  stocks  of  inuendoes,  and  blast  with  a 
breath  what  they  could  not  stir  with  a  storm.  Every 
body's  business  is  their  business.  They  pick  up  the 
ragged  bits,  the  shorn  edges,  the  frayed  threads  of  a 
conversation,  and,  by  some  process  patented  only  of 
themselves,  manage  to  weave  it  into  a  whole  cloth. 

Such  an  aunt  was  not  my  aunt,  however.  She  be- 
longed to  no  such  class  as  that.  We  sometimes  thought, 
to  be  sure,  that  she  put  us  quite  as  many  questions  as 
we  wanted  to  answer;  but  the  feeling  passed  away 
with  the  moment,  and  made  nothing  'like  a  permanent 
impression. 

I  well  remember  now  how,  of  a  Sunday  evening,  she 
used  to  place  her  round-eyed  spectacles  across  her 
nose,  and  ponder  as  she  perused  in  silence  the  pages 
of  her  large  Bible,  and  how  she  often  asked  me  to 
come  to  her  side  and  read  aloud  a  chapter  or  two  to  her, 
while  she  shoved  back  in  her  seat,  and  looked  with  that 


MY    AUNT.  185 

same  face  of  saintly  resignation,  first  at  the  page  I  read, 
and  then  at  me.  I  remember,  too,  the  plain  and  earnest 
remarks  she  was  wont  to  attach  to  the  reading,  in  which 
her  deep  and  earnest  feeling  not  unfrequently  got  the 
better  of  her  power  of  expression,  and  so  each  became 
suddenly  lost  in  the  other. 

Usefulness  was  the  warp  of  her  nature ;  and  this 
was  the  whole  secret  of  her  constant  and  unvarying 
happiness.  A  gleam  of  sunshine  shone  out  always  on 
her  good  face.  There  was  always  a  genial  warmth  in 
her  eyes,  always  a  smile  about  her  mouth. 

There  is  no  need  that  her  picture  should  hang  against 
the  wall  opposite  me.  The  picture  is  even  now  in  my 
memory ;  nay,  it  lives  in  the  secret  place  of  my  heart. 

Next  to  a  mother,  give  me  an  aunt.  She  is  the  one 
to  whom  all  the  troubles  of  childhood  may  be  safely 
carried.  She  will  counsel  and  condole,  sympathize 
and  encourage.  Like  her  heaped  work  basket,  full  as 
it  already  is  with  its  varieties,  her  heart  will  still  find 
room  for  you.  It  is  she  who  will  sleek  down  your  hair 
on  your  forehead  of  a  Sunday  morning  with  her  glove, 
and  just  once  more  adjust  the  little  white  collar  that 
needs  no  alteration  at  all.  It  is  she  who  will  sit  next 
you  at  church,  and  quietly  slip  into  your  hand  a  piece 
of  flag,  or  a  bunch  of  dill,  or  some  other  harmless  aro~ 
matique;  or  she  will  kindly  seat  you  on  the  spacious 
cricket  at  her  feet,  and  lay  your  head  in  her  lap, 
smoothing  your  child's  head  with  her  hand  till  the 
tones  of  the  good  clergyman  are  lost  in  a  sweet  slum- 
ber. 

Blessings  on  the  whole  race  of  aunts  !  Theirs  is  a 
peculiar  mission.  Pray  Heaven  they  may  but  fulfil  it 
all  as  they  should ! 

Heaven  bring  all  its  serenest  joys  to  the  heart  of  my 
16* 


186  DOVECOTE. 

aunt  especially !  She  has  deserved  much ;  for  much 
has  been  given  her  to  do,  and  it  has  been  done  faith- 
fully. 

Let  it  be  long  before  the  lustre  in  the  eyes  shall 
grow  dim,  or  the  strength  of  the  busy  hand  grow  pal- 
sied. Let  the  descent  be  slow,  every  step  opening 
new  promises  beyond.  And  may  the  heart  still  beat 
whole,  and  the  mind  keep  clear,  till  the  new  eyes  look 
with  delight  on  the  celestial  land,  with  its  meadows,  its 
mountains,  and  its  skies,  far  transcending  any  that 
wake  our  thoughts  to  happiness  here ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  GARDEN. 

"  HAPPY,"  said  the  poet  Gray,  "  are  they  who  can 
create  a  rose,  or  erect  a  honeysuckle ! " 

"  I  never  had  any  other  desire,"  wrote  Cowley  to  his 
friend  Evelyn,  "so  like  to  covetousness  as  that  one 
which  I  have  always  had  —  that  I  might  be  the  master 
at  last  of  a  small  house  and  a  large  garden,  and  there 
dedicate  the  remainder  of  my  life  only  to  the  culture 
of  flowers  and  the  study  of  nature." 

I  think  of  the  calm  delight  of  Cowley  at  his  little 
retirement  in  Chertsey,  of  Addison  in  his  rustic  nest 
near  Rugby,  of  Pope  in  his  five-acre  Elysium  at  Twick- 
enham, of  Shenstone,  refining  upon  nature  itself  at  the 
Leasowes,  and  of  all  the  great  and  good  men  that  since 
then  have  tasted  the  sweetest  and  quietest  pleasures 
of  life  in  their  gardens  ;  and  my  heart  turns  once  more 
to  the  memory  of  the  old  familiar  garden  at  Dovecote. 

It  was  not  at  all  after  art ;  it  was  nothing  but  nature. 
In  those  earlier  times,  people  had  not  yet  begun  much 
to  refine  upon  their  out-door  possessions  ;  so  that  I  fear 
the  most  of  its  charms  will  be  found  nowhere  but  in 
association  and  memory. 

Yet  it  was  a  sweet  little  plot,  stretching  back  from 
the  old  brown  lodge  for  nearly  an  acre's  space,  terraced 
broadly,  and  substantially  banked  with  the  richest  turf. 

A  mossy  pale  girded  it  on  the  side  nearest  the  house, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  cincture  consisted  of  stone 

(187) 


188  DOVECOTE." 

walls,  firmly  laid,  and  embossed  all  over  with  gray  and 
crisp  lichens. 

There  were  rows  of  peach,  and  apple,  and  plum 
trees,  standing  just  at  the  edge  of  the  wall,  their  rich 
fruits  glistening  in  the  summer's  sun  like  the  fabled 
apples  of  the  Hesperides.  Double  lines  of  currant 
bushes  stretched  through  nearly  the  whole  garden, 
where  we  were  busied  with  picking  the  red  bunches  of 
fruit,  to  be  used  in  making  light  domestic  wine.  There 
was  a  half-decayed  summer  house  near  the  end  of  this 
avenue  of  bushes,  over  which,  on  one  side,  an  ambitious 
grape  vine  was  stretching  its  clasping  tendrils,  and,  on 
the  other,. a  vigorous  rose  bush  was  reaching  with  its 
thorns,  flowers,  and  leaves.  A  tame  robin  came  to  build 
her  nest  there  every  spring,  and  we  climbed  up  by  the 
benches  and  the  lattice  work  to  see  the  fledglings  raise 
their  ugly  heads;  and  open  their  long,  yellow  throats. 

In  one  spot  was  a  long  row  of  beets,  whose  glossy 
tops  reddened  in  the  morning  sun  till  they  seemed 
streaked  with  blood.  In  another  was  a  row  of  carrots  ; 
and  then  of  parsnips  ;  and  then  of  onions,  their  slender 
tops  looking  like  spires  above  the  soil. 

On  the  terrace  below  there  was  a  well-preserved  bed, 
where  my  aunt  cultivated  her  herbs,  such  as  marigold, 
and  valerian,  and  marjoram,  and  mint,  and  where,  in 
the  first  warm  days  of  spring,  there  was  nothing  but 
taking  up  and  setting  out  again.  Beyond  this  bed,  the 
broad  leaves  of  the  squash  vines  lifted  in  the  wind,  dis- 
closing the  yellow  blossoms  or  the  streaked  rind  of  the 
unripe  squashes  ;  and  the  green  and  prickly  cucumbers 
nestled  near  the  ground,  as  if  to  hide  themselves  ;  and 
a  bed  of  Savoy  and  coarser  cabbages,  still  beyond  this, 
showed  like  a  platoon  of  troops,  with  big,  round  caps 
on  their  heads,  stiffly  performing  some  skilful  evolution. 


THE    GARDEN.  189 

Then  came  another  terrace  below  this,  the  rich  bank 
of  turf  inviting  you  to  roll  down  it,  and  land  on  the 
strip  of  grass  at  its  base. 

Here  was  a  little  patch  of  clover,  where  the  bees 
swarmed  in  the  summer  mornings,  and  over  which  the 
large  butterflies  hovered  in  their  gay  cloaks  of  gold, 
with  dark,  velvety  borders.  And  here,  too,  stood  a 
phalanx  of  young  apple  trees,  thrusting  the  round  and 
tender  greenings  through  the  clustering  leaves. 

Where  the  three  terraces  all  merged  at  their  farther 
extrenn'ties  into  one  common  ground,  there  was  a  com- 
pact army  of  bean  poles,  whereon  clustered  vines  and 
leaves  without  number,  and  from  which  dangled  scarlet, 
and  purple,  and  dainty  white  bean  flowers ;  and  there 
the  .airy  humming  birds  used  to  poise  themselves  on 
their  gossamer  wings,  drinking  dew  from  these  bril- 
liantly-tinted goblets  with  their  slender  bills.  When 
the  long,  streaked  pods  hung  down  in  such  thick  rows 
from  the  vines,  we  used  to  gather  them  into  baskets  by 
the  handful. 

And  then  came  a  high,  double  row  of  pea  vines, 
making  a  complete  network  upon  the  birch  brush,  so 
that  one  could  easily  conceal  himself  there ;  and  then  a 
large  patch  of  early  potatoes,  checkering  the  little  reach 
of  ground  so  that  it  looked  like  a  very  carpet. 

Raspberries  grew  red  upon  the  edges  of  the  farther 
wall,  and  tomatoes  held  up  their  pale-green  offerings  to 
the  ripening  sun.  Then  came  a  little  spot  of  grass  in 
the  distant  corner,  where  a  pet  calf,  secured  to  a  stake, 
was  suffered  to  wind  up  its  rope  as  often  as  it  would, 
and  invited  to  give  first  indulgence  to  its  graminivorous 
propensities. 

Back  again  by  the  avenue  formed  by  the  currant 
bushes,  you  came  to  the  garden  gate.  Just  at  the  post 


190  DOVECOTE. 

in  the  corner  were   stationed  large  clumps  of  lilacs, 

—  purple,  and  white,  and  red,  —  raising  their  spiked 
bunches  of  flowers  for  every  one's  enjoyment  and  ad- 
miration; and  a  few  stately  hollyhocks  stood  around, 
with  the  mien  of  sentries ;  and  here  and  there  a  great 
sunflower  lifted  its  head  above  all  the  rest,  a  bright, 
golden  rim  encircling  the  field  of  black  seed  within. 

And  young  chickens  got  strayed  away  among  the 
beds  from  their  clucking  mothers,  jumping  up  at  the 
bugs  that  swarmed  among  the  leaves,  or  chasing  the 
venturous  flies  upon  the  patches  of  grass.  I  sometimes 
took  the  responsibility  upon  myself  of  seeing  that  they 
all  got  safely  home  again  after  their  long  wanderings. 

In  the  spring,  it  was  my  highest  delight  to  be  at 
work  in  the  garden,  spading,  and  hoeing,  aud  weeding ; 
though  I  confess  I  liked  the  last  employment  not  a 
whit  better  than  boys  generally  do.  There  was  then 
such  life  and  freshness  in  every  thing.  In  the  summer, 
too,  I  loved  to  straggle  in  the  shadow  of  the  bushes,  or 
sit  down  in  the  rustic  arbor  beneath  the  leafy  grape 
vine,  or  watch  the  blue  and  purple  cheeks  of  the  plums 
as  they  grew  daily  blacker  and  riper,  or  immure  yellow 
humble  bees  in  the  hollyhock  flowers  and  the  squash 
blossoms.  In  the  autumn,  it  was  a  busy  harvest  time 

—  when  the  yellow  tomatoes,  and  the  blood-red  pep- 
pers, and  the  rattling  bean  pods,  and  the  rich-colored 
squashes  were  all  coming  in ;  when  the  chickens,  now 
grown  large,  went  searching  busily  about  for  a  taste  of 
the  esculents  that  might  have  fallen  behind ;  and  the 
snn  fell  slantwise  through  the  yellow  bean  vines,  and 
upon  the  mossy  walls ;  and  every  feeling,  and  every 
thought,  and   every  association  was   of  the   pleasant 
days  about  the  home  hearth  that  were  yet  to  come. 

The  old  garden  became  an  invaluable  teacher  to  me 


THE    GARDEN.  19l 

at  the  last.  It  becomes  a  healthful  instructor  to  every 
one. 

He  who  is  given  to  quiet  and  meditative  labor  in  his 
garden  is  not  the  one  in  whose  thoughts  was  ever  born 
a  crime.  Horticulture  has  an  effect,  secret  and  silent, 
to  rein  in  the  too  impulsive  feelings,  and  to  tone  the 
heart  to  sentiments  of  gentleness  and  love. 

Of  course,  there  are  enough  whose  unconditional 
praises  of  mortar  and  brick,  street  and  number,  will 
never  end.  They  were  made  for  the  town,  and  ex- 
tremely one-sided  creations  are  they,  too.  Only  when 
in  town  do  they  live.  For  such  people,  an  employment 
like  gardening  can  hold  out  not  the  first  charm.  By 
the  side  of  good,  healthy,  garden  dirt,  they  could  think 
of  nothing  but  soiled  clothes  and  smutty  hands.  They 
could  never  learn  to  write  to  their  friends  in  town  as 
Bolingbroke  wrote  to  Swift :  "  I  am  in  my  farm ;  and 
here  I  shoot  strong  and  tenacious  roots.  I  have  caught 
hold  of  the  earth,  to  use  a  gardener's  phrase ;  and  nei- 
ther my  friends  nor  my  enemies  will  find  it  an  easy 
matter  to  transplant  me  again." 

To  a  well-furnished  mind  and  a  healthy  heart  there 
can  be  no  calmer  and  deeper  enjoyment  than  that 
drawn  from  a  good  garden  spot.  The  very  hoeing  of 
the  clods  is  but  another  process  of  turning  over  the 
thoughts  again.  The  sprouting  of  the  seeds,  their  si- 
lent but  steady  growth,  and  the  tender  and  watchful 
culture  bestowed  upon  them,  are  but  so  many  illustra- 
tions of  the  birth,  growth,  and  culture  of  the  hidden 
feelings  of  the  heart. 

In  a  garden  is  learned  contentment;  and  repose 
grows  as  a  mental  habit  out  of  it.  Peacefulness  distils 
gently  on  the  heart,  as  dew  is  distilled  from  the  sky 


192  DOVECOTE. 

upon  the  flowers.  Thought  engenders  thought;  and 
the  soul  finds  all  the  pictures  of  heaven  mirrored  in  its 
own  depth,  unshattered  by  the  ruthless  violence  of  the 

world. 

"  Henceforth  I  shall  know 
That  Nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and  pure ; 
No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there,  - 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 
Awake  to  love  and  beauty." 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

SUNDAY  IN  SUMMER. 

IT  always  seemed  the  stillest  day  in  the  whole  year. 
There  was  a  hush  in  the  talk  in  which  all  indulged,  so 
that  it  seemed  solemn.  The  house  was  always  more 
quiet  than  on  the  other  days  of  the  week;  and  the 
spirit  communicated  itself  in  some  way  to  the  animals 
and  the  fowls  out  of  doors,  nay,  to  the  very  birds  that 
sang  so  much  more  sweetly  in  the  tree  tops. 

Perhaps  a  good  part  of  this  was  only  imagination, 
after  all ;  yet  it  must  be  confessed  it  wrought  on  our 
minds  as  it  had  power  to  do  at  no  other  time. 

Those  clear,  calm,  holy  Sabbath  mornings !  How 
brightly  they  dawned  in  the  sweet  summer  time !  What 
a  religious  aspect  wore  Nature  herself,  as  men  ceased 
from  their  work,  and  the  fields  lay  spread  out  silently 
in  the  sun!  What  a  balm  was  in  the  air  —  of  lilacs, 
and  laburnums,  and  honeysuckles,  and  roses !  How 
quietly  the  doves  sat  and  dressed  their  plumage  on  the 
sill  of  the  old  dovecote,  as  if  they  would  not  forget  due 
preparation  for  the  day !  How  pleasantly  the  old  Tab- 
itha  looked  in  the  sun,  licking  her  coat  smoothly  till  it 
glistened  and  shone  under  her  tongue  ! 

I  remember  it  all  but  too  well.     Alas !  alas !  what 

boy  is  there  that  does  not  remember  very  freshly,  what 

grown  man  is  there  that  does  not  live  it  all  over  again, 

when  he  takes  a  Sunday  morning  walk  over  the  meads, 

17  0«> 


194  DOVECOTE. 

and  down  through  the  valleys,  and  beside  the  flowering 
hedgerows  ? 

I  plucked  a  large  branch  of  the  lilac  that  blossomed 
near  the  garden  gate,  and  robbed  a  rose  tree  of  the 
flower  I  had  religiously  watched  through  the  week. 
This  latter  went  into  ray  button  hole.  In  the  garden  I 
found  all  that  its  simple  variety  offered  at  my  disposal 
—  bachelors'  buttons,  foxglove,  violets,  and  pinks,  and 
larkspurs. 

The  Sabbath  prayer  rises  even  now  to  my  ears,  com- 
ing from  the  lips  of  a  pious  father  gone  to  his  reward. 
The  sun  still  shines  in  at  the  eastern  windows,  so  that 
they  blaze  from  afar  in  the  eyes  of  the  traveller.  There 
is  the  same  gentle  hurrying  up  stairs  and  down  stairs, 
into  the  sitting  room,  into  the  parlor,  some  for  one  thing, 
and  some  for  another.  The  same  sober  procession  —  a 
family  procession  —  marches  off  down  the  avenue  to 
the  road,  and  winds  away  through  sunshine  and  shadow 
to  the  village  church. 

As  we  come  to  a  patch  of  woods,  through  which  the 
old  country  road  is  cut,  we  see  the  squirrels  springing 
from  their  leafy  coverts,  racing  along  on  the  moss- 
spotted  stone  walls,  and  disappearing  again  in  the  deep 
green  around  them,  and  hear  the  scream  of  the  wood 
birds  in  the  secluded  aisles  of  the  forest  as  they  mingle 
then-  chants  for  the  sacred  day,  and  stop  a  moment  to 
watch  the  purling  of  a  little  brook,  or  listen  to  its  prattle 
and  babble  as  it  goes  to  hide  itself  in  the  wood  again. 

The  plot  of  green  grass  before  the  church  is  covered 
with  men,  who  have  assembled  in  knots  and  groups  to 
chat  over  the  rustic  events  of  the  week.  The  church 
windows  are  raised ;  and,  as  we  file  into  the  capacious 
old  family  pew,  a  fresh  drift  of  air  comes  pleasantly 


SUNDAY    IN    SUMMER.  195 

through,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  opened  hymn 
books  in  the  windows,  and  rustling  the  faded  fringe 
that  skirts  the  base  of  the  pulpit.  Old  ladies  are  early 
in  their  seats  in  the  corners  ;  and  they  dispense  dill  and 
caraway  freely  among  the  young  children  near  them, 
telling  them,  in  a  whisper,  that  they  must  be  careful  to 
make  no  noise. 

The  members  of  the  choir  straggle  in,  one  by  one, 
and  the  busy  chorister,  bustling  among  the  heaps  of 
oblong  books,  talks  loudly,  and  reaches  over  familiarly, 
yet  with  an  air  of  authority,  to  the  females.  The 
strings  of  the  violin  begin  to  twing  twang  sharply,  as 
preliminary  to  the  harmonies  of  the  day.  Ever  and 
anon  the  deeper  viol  throbs  out  one  of  its  bass  sounds, 
that  seem,  in  comparison  with  the  other,  like  the  surge 
and  swell  of  the  ocean.  The  chorister  carries  his  head 
stiffly,  and  of  necessity ;  for  extravagantly  high  shirt 
collars,  extravagantly  starched,  seem  to  annoy  him  quite 
to  the  verge  of  his  endurance.  And  all  the  male  sing- 
ers wear  such  large  bows  to  their  cravats,  and  have 
their  hair  brushed  so  smartly,  and  affect  such  worldly- 
wise  looks  among  themselves,  that  they  are  to  be 
known  among  thousands  as  the  singers  in  the  village 
choir. 

During  the  sermon,  which  is  apt  to  be  long  on  these 
weary  days  of  summer,  many  a  child  lays  his  head  in 
his  mother's  lap,  and  falls  soundly  asleep  ;  and  many  a 
good  deacon,  probably  satisfied  that  all  is  going  on  as  it 
should,  falls  asleep  likewise,  leaning  his  nodding  head 
upon  his  hand.  The  sermon  has  a  great  many  divisions 
and  subdivisions  ;  and  I  used  to  think  sometimes  it  had 
more  "lastlys"  and  "finallys"  than  all  the  rest  of  it 
together. 

At  length  it  draws  to  a  close.     The  people  rise  at  the 


196  DOVECOTE 

last  prayer  and  for  the  benediction.  The  "intermission" 
comes  next,  which  is  passed  in  friendly  talk  about  the 
church,  and  in  at  the  neighbors'  dwellings,  the  boys 
stealing  around  behind  the  church  to  tell  their  exploits 
to  each  other,  or  to  "  swap "  jackknives,  and  the  men 
talking  of  their  produce  and  their  cattle,  and  the  great 
good  done  by  the  recent  shower. 

As  the  congregation  separate  at  night  for  another 
week,  the  great  doors  of  the  church  shut  heavily  after 
them,  and  the  old  temple  is  soon  quiet  and  deserted. 
The  hymn  books  lie  just  as  they  were  strewn  about 
on  the  seats,  and  the  singing  books  of  the  choir  are  in 
confusion.  Yet  there  they  will  lie  without  molestation 
for  the  seven  still  days  to  come. 

Walking  slowly  home  again,  the  afternoon  being  yet 
but  half  spent,  we  watch  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  on 
the  far-off  grainfields,  as  the  sun  chases  them  to  their 
coverts  in  the  woods.  Every  thing  says  "  Sunday." 
Every  thing  looks  "  Sunday."  The  very  stillness  in 
the  air  breathes  "  Sunday."  The  holy  spirit  of  the  day 
settles  down  upon  us  all,  not  *once  depressing,  but  all 
the  while  subduing,  our  spirits  and  our  thoughts. 

We  pass  pleasant  country  cottages,  embowered  in 
shrubbery,  and  plain  white  houses,  with  not  a  bough  or 
a  vine  to  keep  off  the  fierce  and  gairish  sun.  Some  of 
the  latter  put  in  us  odd  thoughts  of  people's  ideas  of 
comfort  and  of  taste  —  as  if  it  cost  any  more  to  suffer  a 
pretty  shade  tree  to  grow,  or  a  flowering  rose  tree  to 
cling,  or  a  leafy  vine  to  clamber.  Before  some  such 
houses,  the  hot  sun  pouring  down  in  an  unbroken  flood, 
and  the  lines  of  heat  wavering  and  streaming  from  clap- 
boards and  shingles,  sickly  poultry  wallow,  and  rank 
weeds  wilt  and  die.  There  are  no  blinds  ;  nothing  but 
gaudy  paper  curtains  within,  with  a  big  figure  and  a 


SUNDAY    IN    SUMMER.  197 

dazzling  or  a  fiery  ground.  The  sight  impresses  one 
almost  as  deeply  as  the  sight  of  real  destitution.  Ei- 
ther makes  a  dismal  picture  of  desolation. 

Arrived  home  again,  we  seat  ourselves  about  the 
table  that  stands  spread  for  us  all,  and,  after  our  repast, 
the  children  read  aloud  in  the  family  Bible  to  parents 
and  grandparents,  when  the  servants  likewise  are  some- 
times called  in.  Then  comes  the  good  old  family  re- 
union ;  when  conversation  goes  on  at  a  pleasant  rate, 
and  the  events  of  the  day,  more  especially  the  sermon 
of  the  minister,  are  commented  on  in  a  spirit  of  candor 
and  kindness. 

And  after  this  was  a  walk  in  the  garden,  where  I  was 
wont  to  stroll  down  the  little  avenue  formed  by  the  cur- 
rant bushes,  or  hide  myself  from  sight  among  the  bean 
vines,  or  stretch  out  on  the  fresh  grass  beneath  the  fruit 
trees,  watching  the  insects,  and  listening  to  the  birds, 
and  gazing  up  into  the  azure  vault  of  heaven,  seeming 
never  so  distant,  and  Limitless,  and  deep  as  now.  The 
poet's  beautiful  Lines  come  to  me  at  this  time,  as  I  think 
of  the  feelings  that  then  used  to  scud  over  my  soul, 
when  a  light  cloud  straggled  across  the  face  of  the 
sky:- 

"  I  would  I  were  like  thee,  thou  little  cloud, 
Ever  to  live  in  heaven ;  or,  seeking  earth, 
To  let  my  spirit  down  in  drops  of  love ; 
To  sleep  with  night  upon  her  dewy  lap  ; 
And,  the  next  dawn,  back  with  the  sun  to  heaven ; 
And  so  on  through  eternity,  sweet  cloud ! 
I  cannot  but  think  some  senseless  things 
Are  happy." 

And  when  at  last  the  night  came  down,  —  calm,  se- 
rene, and  holy,  —  it  always  seemed  night  worthy  to  be 
married  to  such  a  day.     Far  into  the  evening  we  sat  at 
17* 


198  DOVECOTE. 

the  open  windows,  or  in  the  doors,  talking  to  each  other 
in  low  tones,  and  counting  the  stars  that  were  coming 
through  the  blue  above  us,  and  listening  to  the  "  droning 
flight"  of  the  beetle. 

The  day  went  out  as  it  came  in,  leaving  the  heart 
full  of  the  highest  and  the  holiest  feelings.  It  was 
always  a  day  of  rest.  From  that  point  the  spirits 
bounded  forward  to  the  duties  of  the  week,  refreshed 
and  vigorous. 

A  Sunday  in  summer  seems  hardly  Sunday  to  me 
now,  except  in  the  heavenly  quiet  of  the  country. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL  HOUSE. 

BOYHOOD — boyhood!  What  an  age  is  it  of  hope 
and  enjoyment,  of  trial  and  sorrow !  How  big  are  all 
our  little  griefs,  and  how  limitless  seem  the  threescore 
years  of  human  life  !  With  how  much  of  imagination 
are  all  our  thoughts  tinted,  and  with  what  strangely- 
blent  colors  are  our  pictures  of  the  world  all  drawn  ! 

There  comes  to  a  man  but  one  boyhood ;  would  to 
Heaven  —  many  are  ready  to  say  —  our  manhood  were 
but  the  childish  age  lived  over  again  ! 

It  was  a  walk  of  a  mile  and  more  to  the  old  school 
house,  and,  on  the  summer  mornings,  we  reached  it  a 
full  hour  before  the  "  master."  Then  what  gay  times 
were  sure  to  follow !  The  door  was  open,  and  the  win- 
dows ;  and  through  first  one,  and  then  the  other,  we 
kept  up  the  wildest  sport  tolerated  on  the  hither  side  of 
Chickasaw  villages  and  hunting  grounds. 

The  school  house  itself  was  one  of  the  remaining  cu- 
riosities of  the  back  age.  It  was  of  but  a  single  story, 
and  had  windows  thickly  set  in  on  every  side,  and  a 
very  spare  chimney,  exactly  in  the  middle  of  its  many- 
sided  roof.  The  panes  were  very  small,  scarce  large 
enough  for  even  the  whole  of  a  child's  face  to  flatten  it- 
self upon.  The  outer  door  was  clumsy  and  heavy,  and 
painted  blue ;  and  when  it  was  fastened  at  all,  it  was 
with  a  rusty  padlock,  as  much  past  its  proper  time  of 
service  as  the  old  school  house  itself. 

(199) 


A  single  row  of  desks  was  secured  to  the  wall  on 
each  side  of  the  room,  and  benches  were  placed  on  the 
outside.  There  were  no  such  needless  encumbrances 
to  these  as  backs,  and  here  many  and  many  a  promis- 
ing boy  learned  how  to  make  a  round-shouldered, 
stooping  man. 

The  long  box  stove,  of  cast  iron,  stood  as  nearly  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  as  may  be,  and  when  in  winter 
it  was  not  almost  at  a  red  heat,  it  was  sure  to  be  dis- 
mally black  and  cold.  And,  with  such  sudden  varia- 
tions of  temperature,  we  managed,  under  favor  of 
Heaven,  to  go  through  our  school  days  without  Death's 
laying  his  chill  hand  upon  us.  We  had  never  heard  of 
such  inventions  as  ventilators  in  those  primitive  times  ; 
but  when  the  room  grew  so  hot  that  almost  every  other 
child's  face  was  as  red  as  a  roasted  apple,  the  thought- 
ful "master"  opened  wide  the  door,  and  let  in  the  bleak 
wintry  air  upon  us  in  most  plentiful  draughts. 

In  the  winter  noons,  after  our  baskets  and  tin  pails 
had  been  cleared  of  the  "  dinners "  brought  in  them, 
some  of  us  took  to  building  snow  forts  near  the  school 
house,  in  which  one  party  would  obstinately  intrench 
themselves,  while  the  other  played  the  none  too  gentle 
part  of  besiegers  ;  and  at  such  times  the  snowballs  flew 
thick  and  fast,  till  the  air  seemed  full  of  whizzing  lumps 
of  snow.  How  many  a  battered  back  and  bruised  face 
was  there  at  such  a  time  !  and  what  a  sorry-looking 
mess  the  besiegers  grew  to  be,  before  they  succeeded 
in  carrying  the  white  fortress  by  storm  !  and  how  many 
a  play  of  this  kind  turned  into  serious  quarrel  before  it 
was  over  !  And  then,  to  begin  the  afternoon  hours,  we 
had  red  and  wet  hands,  and  wetter  and  colder  feet,  and 
—  how  feet  were  rubbed  fiercely  together  for  the  biting 
"  chilblains ' " 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL  HOUSE.  201 

On  the  long  days  of  summer,  we  had  many  a  pleas- 
ant romp  with  the  rosy-faced  girls  before  the  school 
began  ;  and  we  did  not  scruple  at  times,  either,  to  haz- 
ard all  our  old  friendship  with  each  other  for  the  sake 
of  playing  a  chivalrous  part  before  the  fair  one  whose 
smiles  were  then  worth  the  world  to  us.  How  foolish 
it  all  looks  now !  and  yet  what  has  mature  life  any 
different  ?  We  do  but  pine,  and  grow  jealous,  and  lay 
awake  nights  to  plot  schemes,  and  go  hungry  days  for 
anxiety,  —  and  all  this  for  dear  woman.  For  her  we 
strive ;  for  her  we  are  ambitious ;  for  her  we  labor  to 
outdo  each  other.  She  fires  our  hearts  with  passions, 
and  is  as  able  now  as  in  the  schoolboy  days  to  intoxi- 
cate us  with  a  smile,  or  make  us  go  mad  with  her  scorn. 
What  is  this  all  but  the  old  school  time  come  back 
again  ? 

There  was  no  shade  about  the  school  house  of  any 
description.  They  used  to  say  the  building  had  been 
painted  white  once ;  but  it  was  nothing  but  brown  now, 
and  the  very  dingiest  brown  at  that,  too.  Yet  better 
so  than  a  glaring,  flashing  white,  without  a  blind  to  a 
window,  and  no  shade  trees  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

Children  have  need  to  be  thankful  that  such  recep- 
tacles are  not  open  for  them  now. 

On  Saturday  afternoons,  some  few  of  us  met,  by  pre- 
vious concert,  at  the  school  house,  to  pass  away  the 
time  till  dark  in  "  playing  ball,"  at  which  we  had  quite 
a  variety  of  games.  Sometimes,  too,  we  did  nothing 
but  play  at  "hide  and  whoop,"  tearing  like  mad  buffaloes 
about  the  old  building,  yelling  like  so  many  infuriate 
Indians,  and  disturbing — though  we  none  of  us  stopped 
to  think  of  it  then  —  the  peace  of  the  neighborhood  for 
a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

Oftentimes  we  strolled  off  into  the  woods  not  very 


202  DOVECOTE. 

far  distant,  where  we  made  roaring  fires  under  the 
farmers'  walls,  especially  in  the  autumn  days,  and 
roasted  potatoes  that  we  had  filched  from  the  big  bins 
at  home,  or  played  impromptu  Indian  games,  holding 
war  councils,  and  giving  ourselves  up  to  uproarious  fes- 
tivities. Those  were  famous  times  for  us  in  the  woods, 
and  will  stand  out  distinct  on  the  plane  of  my  memory 
till  the  "  last  syllable "  of  time  that  is  "  recorded "  for 
me  here. 

Standing  as  it  did  at  the  corner  of  two  roads  that 
crossed  each  other,  the  old  school  house,  when  filled 
with  life,  seemed  to  the  traveller  like  a  hive  of  swarm- 
ing bees.  Such  a  buzzing  all  the  time  went  up,  one 
would  have  thought  the  place  to  be  Hymettus  itself  I 

Some  of  the  scholars  studied  very  hard  and  very 
loud,  holding  on  by  either  side  of  their  book,  and 
moving  their  bodies  steadily  forward  and  backward  as 
their  lips  let  out  the  words.  Some  sat  lazily  leaning  on 
one  palm,  with  their  book  moved  a  good  distance  from 
them,  and  their  eyes  still  farther  from  their  book,  out 
the  window.  Some  of  the  younger  and  roguish  ones 
watched  gathering  knots  of  flies  in  the  sun  on  the  floor, 
and  slyly  improved  their  opportunity,  when  the  teach- 
er's back  was  turned,  to  deluge  them  by  spitting.  And 
the  very  small  children  sat  on  very  small  benches,  and 
half  the  time  were  stretched  out  asleep,  when  they 
were  not  intently  studying  the  antics  of  those  older 
than  themselves. 

What  a  mixed  community  is  a  country  school,  sure 
enough !  Children  of  all  ages,  dispositions,  and  capaci- 
ties are  temporarily  garnered  there,  some  of  them  to  be 
afterward  picked  out  with  the  wheat  of  the  world,  and 
others  to  be  blown  about  here  and  there  with  the  chaff. 
Humanity  is  within  that  small  compass  condensed.  It 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL  HOUSE.  203 

is  but  in  pleasant  miniature.  The  passions,  the  hopes, 
the  vaulting  ambition,  the  deep  and  lasting  affections, 
— there  are  none  of  them  yet  grown.  They  have 
hardly  thrust  their  head  through  the  warm  and  mellow 
heart-soil.  Their  characters,  their  influence,  their  des- 
tiny,—  they  remain  to  be  written.  The  fair  sheet  is 
yet  without  a  line  or  a  blot. 

On  the  low,  wooden  benches  are  mapped  out  fields 
of  action  that  the  deeds  of  a  lifetime-  afterwards  shall 
hardly  be  able  to  cover.  By  the  opened  windows,  the 
summer  airs  drawing  softly  in,  fire  is  set  to  imagina- 
tions that  may  come  some  day  to  charm  the  world. 
Idle  hours  slip  away,  when  young  and  bright  eyes 
chase  wanton  butterflies  over  the  green  turf,  or  watch 
the  birds  building  nests  in  the  apple-tree  boughs  ;  and 
perhaps  during  those  very  hours  fancies  are  budding 
and  bursting  that  shall,  in  the  hereafter,  make  some 
poor  soul's  life  seem,  after  all,  but  a  long  holiday. 

We  cannot  tell  what  lies  in  so  little  as  a  "  master's  " 
frown.  We  know  not  what  trifling  matter  it  is  that 
may  give  a  color  to  the  child's  whole  afterlife.  There 
is  no  saying  what  short  day  in  the  school  year  may  of 
itself,  with  its  hundred  little  incidents,  fill  up  the  young 
heart  with  a  sentiment  and  a  purpose  that  will  distin- 
guish the  man  through  all  his  earthly  years. 

Droning  hum  of  the  old  school  house !  it  is  by  this 
that  we  know  the  honey  is  being  gathered  ! 


,  CHAPTER   XXIX. 

A  PICTUKE  WITHOUT  A  FRAME. 

WHEN  we  came  home  from  school,  one  afternoon  in 
summer,  the  old  man  was  sleeping  soundly  in  his  chair. 
It  was  much  earlier  than  usual,  and  the  sun  fell  across 
the  floor  at  his  feet  He  was  sitting  just  before  the 
door,  where  he  must  have  been  thoughtfully  looking 
out  over  the  lawn  when  this  deep  sleep  surprised  him. 

There  he  sat,  his  shrivelled  hands  folded  in  his  lap, 
and  his  snowy  head  partly  dropped  on  his  bosom.  He 
had  such  a  simple  and  such  a  childlike  expression 
about  his  countenance  that  I  stopped  quite  involuntarily 
to  regard  it. 

The  flies  were  swarming  in  the  sun,  and  buzzing 
about  on  the  upper  half  of  the  opened  windows,  and 
making  silent  circuits  about  the  middle  of  the  room ; 
and  the  droning  music  of  their  buzzing  seemed  to  har- 
monize indescribably  with  the  time,  the  place,  and  the 
touching  scene. 

It  seemed  like  Sunday  in  the  room,  so  sacred  was 
the  silence.  The  shadows  of  the  elm-tree  leaves 
played  gently  over  the  doorstone,  as  the  summer  winds 
drifted  lazily  through  the  branches  overhead;  and  I 
fancied  they  might  checker  the  old  man's  dreams. 

Was  he  really  dreaming?  Were  his  thoughts  as  they 
were  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  ?  Did  his  feelings  go  back 
to  the  old  days  ?  and  were  they  renewing  all  their  fresh- 
ness and  their  youth  again  ? 

(204) 


A    PICTURE    WITHOUT    A    FRAME.  205 

Did  he  feel  the  grateful  dew,  glistening  and  reviving, 
upon  the  exhausted  soil  of  his  heart  once  more  ?  Were 
the  bracing  winds  again  drawing,  with  their  refreshing 
influences,  over  his  enervated  brain  ?  Were  new  fires 
feeling  their  subtle  and  secret  way  along  his  veins, 
until  they  warmed  once  more  his  weary  and  withered 
heart? 

I  asked  myself  all  these  questions  at  once,  while  I 
stood,  with  my  hands  crossed  behind  me,  looking  at 
him.  I  tried  to  carry  myself  forward  in  life,  till  my 
imagination  reached  the  verge  of  his  advanced  years. 
I  thought  of  myself  with  palsied  limbs,  and  trembling 
hands,  and  white  head,  and  dim  eyes  that  were  deeply 
sunken  when  they  were  closed.  I  tried  to  picture  to 
my  fancy  my  own  appearance,  and,  above  all,  my  own 
feelings,  when,  by  Heaven's  bounty,  I  might  become  as 
old  as  he. 

It  was  too  much.  My  young  heart  filled  with  strange 
and  sudden  emotions. 

Heaven  pity  the  man  who  comes  to  his  old  age  with 
nothing  but  a  heart  barren  of  sentiment  and  a  mind 
hungering  for  food  !  Such  have  need  of  nothing  then 
so  much  as  pity.  Like  lost  beings  groping  their  way 
about  in  some  unpeopled  solitude  of  a  cavern,  they  feel 
their  path  towards  all  the  remaining  happiness  to  which 
their  feeble  instincts  lead  them.  They  seem  bereft  of 
every  thing  —  friends,  fortune,  and  sympathy.  They 
mope  in  the  household  corners,  counting  the  idle  flies 
in  the  sun,  or  watching  the  crumbling  of  the  ashes  on 
the  hearth,  or  lamenting  the  days  and  the  joys  that  are 
gone  forever.  Their  souls  grovel.  They  are,  as  Sir 
Richard  Steele  calls  them,  but  "  reverend  vegetables." 
They  have  not  thoughts  that  can  elevate  them  above 
dreary  memories ;  instincts  are  all  that  furnish  their 
18 


206  DOVECOTS. 

minds.  They  cannot  draw  pleasure  from  others'  inter- 
course, and  have  none  at  all  to  spare  of  their  own. 
Literally  is  it  dragging  out  the  rest  of  their  existence  ; 
and  thankful  ought  they  to  be  when  the  end  comes, 
and  they  commence  their  lives  anew.  Rather  is  it 
delightful  to  see  an  old  man  approach  his  end  with  the 
courage  a  full  mind  and  ripe  heart  can  alone  inspire, 

"  Sustained  and  soothed  by  an  unfaltering  trust, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 

Poor  old  man  !  thought  L  What  would  you  not  give 
to  be  young  again !  to  revel  in  the  freshness  and  vigor 
of  new  life,  with  the  blood  flying  briskly  in  your  veins, 
and  a  thousand  pleasant,  pictures  swimming  in  your 
brain  !  How  can  you  help  envying  me  iny  own  youth, 
as  your  fading  eyes  follow  me  about  the  room,  through 
the  door,  and  across  the  garden  or  the  lawn?  What 
can  be  your  dreams  ?  Are  they  of  the  old  time  ?  Are 
they  colored  with  the  dyes  of  your  younger  feelings  ? 
Are  they  filling  your  heart  with  secret  sorrows  that  you 
can  never  go  back,  but  must  ever  keep  going  forward  ? 

He  raised  his  head,  and  opened  his  eyes  full  upon 
me.  They  were  filled  with  tears  ! 

And  this  is  what  long  after  grew  out  of  the  picture :  — 

An  old  man  sits  in  his  high-backed  chair 

Before  an  open  door, 
While  the  sun  of  a  summer  afternoon. 

Falls  hot  across  the  floor, 
And  the  drowsy  click  of  an  ancient  clock 

Has  notched  the  hour  of  four. 

A  breeze  blows  in,  and  a  breeze  blows  out, 

From  the  scented  summer  air ; 
And  it  flutters  now  on  his  wrinkled  brow, 

And  now  it  lifts  his  hair ; 
And  the  leaden  lid  of  his  eye  drops  down, 

As  he  sleeps  in  his  high-backed  chair. 


A    PICTURE    WITHOUT    A    FRAME.  207 

The  old  man  sleeps,  and  the  old  man  dreams ; 

His  head  drops  on  his  breast ; 
And  his  hands  relax  their  feeble  hold, 

And  fall  to  his  lap  in  rest. 
The  old  man  sleeps,  and  in  sleep  he  dreams. 

And  in  dreams  again  is  blest. 

The  years  unroll  their  fearful  scroll : 

He  is  a  child  again ; 
A  mother's  tones  are  in  his  ear, 

And  drift  across  his  brain ; 
And  he  chases  gaudy  butterflies 

Far  down  the  rolling  plain. 

He  plucks  the  wild  rose  in  the  woods, 

And  gathers  eglantine, 
And  holds  the  golden  buttercups 

Beneath  his  sister's  chin ; 
And  he  angles  in  the  meadow  brook 

With  a  bent  and  naked  pin. 

He  loiters  down  the  grassy  lane, 

And  by  the  brimming  pool ; 
And  a  sigh  escapes  his  parted  lips, 

As  he  hears  the  bell  for  school ; 
And  he  wishes  it  never  were  nine  o'clock, 

And  the  morning  never  were  full. 

A  mother's  hand  rests  on  his  head ; 

Her  kiss  is  on  his  brow  ; 
But  a  summer  breeze  blows  in  at  the  door, 

With  the  toss  of  a  leafy  bough ; 
And  the  boy  is  a  white-haired  man  again ; 

But  his  eyes  are  tear-fMed  now  I 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

NOTHING  BUT  A  LOVE  STORY. 

Miss  NANCY  went  with  Milly  over  to  Mr.  Brimmer's, 
at  his  particular  request,  to  pass  three  or  four  days. 
Milly  enjoyed  every  minute  of  the  visit.  There  was  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Brimmer's  there  a  part  of  the  time ;  and 
he  and  the  minister  had  a  great  many  stories  to  tell. 
The  following  was  one  of  Mr.  Brimmer's  own,  that 
pleased  Miss  Nancy  vastly. 

Mr.  Brimmer  said  that  the  man  was  no  relative  of 
his,  though,  as  the  story  went,  he  bore  the  same  name 
with  himself. 

A  confirmed  bachelor  was  Mr.  Shubael  Brimmer; 
and  he  had  a  housekeeper. 

So  he  sat  in  the  little  room  that  he  called  his  office 
study,  with  the  sun  glinting  on  the  white  branches  of 
the  sycamores  before  the  house,  stroking  his  abundant 
double  chin  with  one  hand,  and  twirling  his  gold-bowed 
spectacles  between  the  thumb  and  index  finger  of  the 
other. 

It  was  a  strange  thing,  this  world,  thought  Mr.  Brim- 
mer. So  full  of  changes ;  so  beset  with  chances ;  offer- 
ing so  many  modes  for  a  man  —  and  especially  a  single 
man  —  to  get  out  of  it.  Life  is  hardly  in  the  flush  of  its 
morning  before  the  sun  reaches  hold  of  the  meridian ; 
and  hardly  is  it  high  noon  before  the  rays  of  the  great 
luminary  slope  mournfully  to  the  west.  And  he  stroked 

(206) 


NOTHING    BUT    A    LOVE    STOET.  .  209 

his  chin  with  new  vigor,  as  the  sad  thoughts  came  over 
him. 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  now  ? "  said  Mr.  Brimmer  to  him- 
self. "  Here  I  am !  Here  I  am  afraid  I  always  shall 
be  till " 

He  could  not  bear  to  once  think  of  death's  taking 
him! 

"  And  when  I  am  gone,"  pursued  he,  "  what  then  ? 
what  then  ?  No  one  for  me  to  leave  behind ;  no  one 
to  wet  the  grass  on  my  grave  with  her  tears ;  no  one  to 
nurse  my  memory,  or  to  live  after  me  in  this  large 
house  of  mine,  or  to  sigh  once  in  a  while  to  sympa- 
thizing visitors,  '  Poor,  dear  Mr.  Brimmer  ! '  " 

He  had  been  thinking  that  afternoon  of  making  his 
will. 

Now,  for  a  man  to  sit  soberly  down,  and  look  the 
matter  sternly  in  the  face,  saying  to  himself,  without 
any  dodging  or  equivocation,  "  The  chances  are  that  I 
can  live  but  a  few  years  at  the  most,  and  I  may  go  even 
much  sooner  than  I  think  for,  so  every  thing  shall  be 
set  in  order,"  it  surely  is  no  trifling  affair.  Much  as  we 
may  profess  to  detest  the  world,  there  isn't  one  who 
does  not  cling  to  life  till  the  last  point  of  his  time.  A 
man  at  fifty,  or  at  sixty,  or  even  at  seventy,  though  he 
may  have  been  wonderfully  sobered  with  what  he  has 
gone  through,  still  hates  to  cut  the  last  remaining  strand 
that  holds  him  over  the  gulf.  I  should,  therefore,  be 
very  ready  to  conclude  the  serious  contemplation  of 
making  one's  will  an  act  of  moral  heroism,  were  it  nof 
that  Custom  —  that  old  worker  in  brass  and  bronze  — 
has  managed  in  a  great  measure  to  take  the  edge  off 
of  responsibility,  and  to  turn  the  matter  into  only  a 
common,  every-day  affair. 

Mr.  Shubael  Brimmer  was  sitting  before  his  desk 
18* 


210  DOVECOTE. 

while  he  was  thinking  of  his  will.  That  desk  was 
quite  an  old-fashioned  piece  of  furniture,  put  together 
mostly  after  the  style  of  our  great-grandfather's  day  — 
with  a  peaked  top,  that  would,  perhaps,  be  called 
Gothic  redivivus  now,  and  a  turn-down  cover,  that  was 
spread  with  green  baize  ;  having  three  drawers  be- 
neath, on  whose  face  was  a  trifle  of  carved  filigree 
work ;  and  standing  on  huge  round  balls,  clutched 
fiercely  by  claws  of  dragons  hid  away  somewhere. 

There  were  papers  lying  before  him,  spread  out  over 
the  green  baize  covering ;  and  a  copy  of  the  statutes, 
bound  in  rich  russet  calf;  and  a  huge  inkstand,  in  whose 
several  holes  were  pierced  many  stained  and  blackened 
pens.  Immediately  before  him,  too,  lay  a  paper  from 
which  he  had  apparently  just  taken  his  pen ;  for  the  ink 
was  moist  upon  its  white  surface,  and  the  pen  showed 
indubitable  signs  of  recent  service.  He  had  tipped 
back  in  his  chair,  and,  twirling  his  gold-bowed  specta- 
cles in  one  hand,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  the  other, 
seemed  given  up  altogether  to  the  moment's  revery. 

The  paper  he  had  just  drawn  up  was  his  will  itself. 
It  specified  the  several  articles  of  value  of  which  he 
knew  himself  possessed,  and  then  carefully  made  dis- 
tribution of  them  alL  His  house  was  set  down ;  his 
stocks  were  down ;  his  landed  property  was  there,  all 
in  black  and  white  ;  the  whole  was  there.  Not  a  thing 
had  been  forgotten.  These  were  all  carefully  counted 
up,  with  their  values  respectively  annexed,  much  as  if 
he  had  been  a  merchant  at  his  counter,  taking  an  in- 
ventory of  his  stock  in  trade. 

But  yet  the  will  was  not  signed  ! 

Here  he  hesitated.  This  was  the  pinch  with  him ; 
and  a  very  ugly  pinch  was  it,  too.  Had  he  disposed  of 
this  ample  estate  to  his  mind  ?  exactly  to  his  mind  ? 


NOTHING    BtIT    A    LOVE    STORY.  211 

But  then,  again,  it  was  not  yet  signed!  It  was 
worthless  yet.  It  was  nothing  more  than  a  sheet  of 
scrawled  paper.  It  would  take  that  magic  mime  of  his, 
written  legibly  underneath,  and  three  witnesses'  names 
thrown  in  besides,  to  give  it  value ;  and  those  names 
had  none  of  them  yet  been  written.  And  while  he 
was  thinking  of  it,  he  thought  of  every  thing  else  too. 

"  A  wife  ?  Ay,  a  young  wife  ! "  What  could  be 
better  ? 

The  afternoon  sun  had  got  round  so  as  to  throw  it- 
self across  the  carpet  on  the  floor.  A  stray  gust  shook 
the  few  remaining  leaves  of  the  sycamores  together,  so 
that  their  mingled  shadows  danced  strangely  on  the 
figures  of  the  carpet.  There  was  much  in  the  aspect 
of  things  out  of  doors,  in  the  very  atmosphere  itself, 
that  day,  to  set  a  man  so  far  advanced  as  Mr.  Brimmer 
to  thinking  soberly  of  the  russet  that  was  fast  tinting 
his  years,  and  of  the  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf"  that  was 
soon  to  follow  after. 

"  There's  my  housekeeper,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  A 
better  woman  doesn't  probably  live.  She  gets  me  faith- 
fully all  my  meals,  and  is  good  for  seeing  to  the  fires, 
and  never  forgets  to  keep  the  firedogs  bright,  or  the 
hearth  clean  swept.  She  is  a  good  woman,  Mrs.  Tim- 
maty  is ;  and  I  really  should  like  to  be  one  to  give  her 
away  in  marriage  to  some  man  quite  as  good  as  her- 
self; for  such  she  certainly  deserves,  and  such  she 
certainly  will  get. 

"But  she's  too  old !  Pshaw  !  why  do  I  think  of  it  ? 
As  a  housekeeper,  I'll  wager  all  I'm  worth  she  can't  be 
outdone  by  living  woman ;  but  for  a  wife,  —  a  wife  for 
me,  —  to  take  on  herself  the  very  respectable  name  of 
Brimmer,  —  Mrs.  Shubael  Brimmer,  —  nonsense  !  It's 
the  merest  farce  in  the  world  for  me  to  be  thinking 
of  it ! " 


212  DOVECOTE. 

He  picked  up  the  paper  again,  and  read  it  over  anew, 
sinking  his  chin  far  into  the  depths  of  his  ample  cravat, 
and  humming  or  drawling  aloud  as  he  read. 

"  I'll  do  it !  I'll  do  it !  She  can't  refuse  ! "  said  he,  in 
a  sudden  impulse,  laying  the  paper  down  again.  "  She 
can't  refuse  so  good  an  offer  as  that !  The  world  will 
applaud  me  for  doing  it,  too  !  The  world  will  look  at  me 
then,  and  look  at  my  wife,  too,  and  say, '  Upon  my  word, 
Mr.  Brimmer,  but,  for  once  in  your  life,  you've  done  a 
very  handsome  thing  ! '  And  the  world,  for  once  in  its 
life,  wouldn't  be  at  all  out  of  the  way  in  its  judgment, 
either ! 

"  She's  a.  poor  girl ;  and  her  mother  is  poor,  too  ;  and 
what  a  heap  this  would  be  to  her  !  and  coming  so  un- 
expectedly !  And  how  the  old  house  would  be  lit  up 
with  sunshine !  not  such  a  sickly  sunshine  as  that  on 
the  carpet  yonder ;  but  one  that'll  put  gladness  into  a 
man's  face  as  well  as  his  heart !  " 

At  a  rather  early  period  in  life,  Mr.  Brimmer  had 
managed  to  get  a  little  way  ahead  of  the  world.  He 
had  a  bold  genius  in  the  way  of  traffic,  and  determined 
on  giving  up  the  retail  business  in  baskets  and  mo- 
lasses to  less  enterprising  men,  and  staking  all  he  had 
saved  in  a  different  kind  of  venture.  A  dash  of  his  pen 
was  enough  to  transport  the  value  of  his  effects  from 
the  village  to  the  metropolis,  and  a  four-horse  stage 
coach  did  the  same  for  him. 

He  ventured.  He  watched  eagerly  and  closely.  He 
dreamed  of  nothing,  night  and  day,  but  success  ;  and 
success  was  his.  Shubael  Brimmer,  from  being  a  very 
respectable  village  grocer,  became,  in  a  brief  time,  a  rich 
man.  And  still  nursing  his  advantages,  his  wealth 
rolled  up  ;  and  he  remained  in  the  city  to  look  after  it 
the  sharper,  until  at  length  his  old  tastes  drew  him  back 


NOTHING    BUT*  A    LOVE    STORY.  213 

to  the  quiet  village  again,  where  he  at  once  set  about 
building  a  large  house  and  furnishing  it  with  a  good 
housekeeper. 

Until  this  very  day,  he  had  not  had  the  courage  to  sit 
down  and  write  his  will.  What  first  led  him  to  it,  he 
had  never  told  any  one.  And  while  he  was  working 
away  at  that,  and  thinking  how  little  he  had  enjoyed 
with  his  money  too,  after  all,  it  was  just  the  most 
natural  tiling  conceivable  for  him  to  let  a  sober  thought 
slide  into  his  mind  about  matrimony. 

Mr.  Brimmer  was  —  well,  he  never  made  known  his 
age.  His  cheeks  were  ruddy,  and  richly  streaked  in 
places  ;  so  that  people  rather  liked  to  look  at  them.  He 
dressed  well,  kept  up  an  excellent  establishment,  and 
looked  out  sharply  for  the  best  cuts  that  were  to  be  had 
in  the  market,  for  which  he  always  had  to  pay  corre- 
sponding prices.  And  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  town 
who  carried  an  ivory-headed  cane  or  straddled  a  pair  of 
gold  bows  across  his  nose. 

As  this  happy  thought  of  a  wife  flashed  on  him,  he 
jumped  from  his  chair  and  stood  bravely  on  his  feet.  He 
had  for  some  time  —  he  now  confessed  to  himself —  been 
much  bewitched  with  the  pretty  face  of  Kitty  Clair,  and 
wondered  why  this  thought  of  matrimony  had  never  se- 
riously crossed  his  mind  before.  He  had  many  a  time 
caught  himself  staring  at  her  in  church,  when,  but  for 
her  bright  eyes,  the  sermon  must  have  been  much  too 
somniferous  for  him.  He  had  once  or  twice  even 
thought  he  should  like  to  "  see  her  home  "  from  an  even- 
ing conference,  were  it  not  that  people  had  such  a 
very  unamiable  way  of  talking  about  what  did  not  con- 
cern them  at  all. 

But  now,  with  that  will  before  him,  waiting  only  to 
be  signed  that  it  might  have  a  meaning,  he  had,  some- 


214  DOVECOTE. 

how,  come  to  himself  as  he  never  had  before.  It  was 
a  sober  piece  of  business,  this  dying  and  leaving  your 
property  to  you  hardly  knew  whom.  Nay,  it  was  an 
awful  thing  to  die,  without  so  much  as  the  soft  hand  of 
a  woman  who  loves  you  to  shut  your  eyelids  soothingly 
down ! 

He  would  get  married  ;  and  he  would  marry  no  one 
but  Kitty  Clair.  So  to  the  little  brown  cottage  of  the 
widow  Clair  he  went. 

It  was  evening  —  the  same  evening ;  and  he  knocked 
bravely  and  stoutly  at  the  door,  using  his  own  knuckles. 
But  what  of  that  ?  He  was  sure  he  was  rapping  his 
own  knuckles  ./or  something  ! 

The  widow  came  to  the  door  herself.  She  was  by 
no  manner  of  means  an  ugly-looking  woman ;  and,  in 
sooth,  Mr.  Brimmer  might  have  travelled  a  great  ways 
and  found  no  better  woman  for  a  wife  than  she. 

When  she  saw  who  her  visitor  was  she  courtesied,  and 
blushed  deeply,  and  came  near  letting  the  lamp  fall, 
and  exclaimed,  — 

"  Why,  Mr.  Brimmer  ! " 

But  there  was  business  in  the  bachelor ;  and  so  he 
stopped  not  for  surprise  or  sentiment.  He  only  re- 
marked, — 

"  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Clair." 

"  Will  you  walk  in,  Mr.  Brimmer  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  he. 

And  he  set  his  foot  at  once  across  the  threshold,  and 
went  in.  The  blushing  widow  showed  him  into  the 
best  room ;  not  a  whit  better  than  the  parlor  of  Mr. 
Brimmer's  mansion,  to  be  sure,  but  yet  a  charmingly 
snug  little  bit  of  a  room.  He  sat  down  on  the  sofa, 
covered  with  a  very  picturesque  chintz,  and  tried  to 
feel  comfortable  and  composed.  Ordinarily,  he  was  a 


NOTHING  BUT  A  LOVE  STORY.  215 

man  of  great  equability  ;  but  something  threw  him  off 
his  balance  now.  His  mind  was  all  unhinged ;  and  the 
whole  thing  had  to  be  done,  too,  before  he  had  had 
time  to  think  of  such  a  catastrophe. 

He  twirled  his  watch  seals,  and  ran  his  fingers  ner- 
vously through  his  sparse  hair,  and  toyed  with  the 
broad,  black  ribbon  by  which  his  eyeglass  was  suspend- 
ed from  his  neck,  and  plunged  his  fists  deeply  into  the 
soft  chintz-covered  cushion  on  which  he  sat,  much  like 
a  woman  kneading  dough.  But  he  seemed  to  recover 
himself  at  none  of  these  occupations. 

The  widow  Clair  sat  not  a  great  ways  from  him ;  and 
if  she  had  not  been  quite  as  much  disconcerted  as  he 
was  himself,  she  would  certainly  have  noticed  his  em- 
barrassment. Mr.  Brimmer  might  be  sharp  at  a  bar- 
gain ;  but  it  was  plain  that  he  had  but  little  skill  in  ad- 
dressing a  pretty  woman. 

"  The  winter  is  coming  upon  us  very  fast,  Mr.  Brim- 
mer," said  the  widow,  opportunely  rising  and  replenish- 
ing the  fire. 

"  Very  —  very,  indeed  !  "  acquiesced  the  bachelor. 

"  I  have  felt  the  cold  quite  sensibly  of  late,"  con- 
tinued she,  punching  the  coals  vigorously.  "  I  shall 
expect  to  see  snow  very  soon  now.  I  almost  dread  the 
coming  of  winter,  too." 

"  It's  a  very  uncomfortable  season,  Mrs.  Clair,"  he  re- 
plied ;  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  shuddered, 
as  if  he  were  cold. 

"  A  very  uncomfortable  season,"  repeated  he,  the 
shiver  breaking  his  sentence  in  twain. 

"  I  always  think  of  the  poor  at  such  times,"  said  she. 
"  I  always  say  to  myself,  Mr.  Brimmer,  '  God  help 
them ! ' " 

And  she  spatted  her  hands  quite  daintily  together,  to 


216  DOVECOTE. 

shake  off  the  ashes  that  were  not  upon  them,  and  re 
sumed  her  seat,  facing  the  bachelor. 

He  was  lost  a  moment  in  thought,  or,  at  least,  he  ap- 
peared to  be ;  for  he  gazed  abstractedly  into  the  dan- 
cing flames,  and  for  once  his  hands  had  rest  from  their 
nervous  motions. 

"  You  are  enjoying  excellent  health  now,  are  you 
not  ?  "  persisted  she,  determined  to  be  as  agreeable  to 
her  rare  visitor  as  she  knew  how. 

The  bachelor  was  thinking  of  Kitty  as  he  looked  in 
the  fire,  and  wondering  if  the  town  could  furnish  him,  or 
any  other  man,  with  so  pretty  a  wife  as  she.  So  he  did 
not  seem  to  catch  her  remark  at  all. 

She  was  a  persevering  woman,  and  she  had  it  over 
again:  — 

"  You  are  in  good  health,  Mr.  Brimmer,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Excellent,  madam ;  excellent  health,  I  assure  you," 
said  he,  quickly,  started  from  his  revery.  "  And  your 
own  health  is  good,  I  believe,  Mrs.  Clair  ? " 

"  It  is,  sir,  thank  you,"  was  her  reply,  accompanying 
it  with  a  very  easy  sort  of  a  bow. 

And  then  ensued  a  silence  again.  It  grew  at  last 
painful. 

Mr.  Brimmer's  thoughts  were  all  the  time  upon  Kitty. 
Her  he  had  come  that  evening  expressly  to  see,  and  her 
alone.  He  might  regard  her  mother  very  highly,  but 
that  was  all.  He  thought  he  loved  Kitty,  and  that  was 
much  more.  And  Kitty  it  was  his  determination  to  see. 
The  question  was,  how  to  get  at  her. 

He  began  hitching  in  his  seat  again.  Mrs.  Clair  must 
certainly  have  thought  either  that  he  was  a  very  uneasy 
sort  of  a  body,  or  that  her  sofa  was  extremely  hard ;  it 
hardly  matters  which.  But  not  a  word,  with  all  his 
hitching,  about  Kitty.  He  had  not  so  much  as  men- 


NOTHING    BUT    A    LOVE    STORY.   -  217 

tioned  her  name  yet.  The  charming  widow  had  come 
in  between  him  and  his  purpose,  and  set  him  suddenly 
all  adrift  from  his  reckoning. 

In  the  other  room,  opposite  this,  sat  Kitty  herself. 
Her  mother  had  left  her  alone  ;  but  she  was  not  alone 
now.  A  forbidden  lover  had  slyly  managed  to  steal  a 
moment  of  bliss  in  her  company,  having  waited  watch- 
fully at  the  window  till  he  was  quite  sure  of  his  safety. 

Bob  Gray  —  as  every  body  called  him  —  was  a  rather 
wild  and  prankish  youth,  of  good  heart,  perhaps,  yet  not 
sufficiently  sedate  to  meet  the  favor  of  Kitty's  mother. 
The  widow  had  never  absolutely  forbidden  him  the 
house  ;  but  then,  when  he  did  come,  she  was  particular 
to  keep  herself  about,  keeping  a  sharp  eye  on  him 
likewise. 

As  it  happened,  —  and  as  it  very  often  happens  in 
just  such  cases  as  this,  —  Kitty  was  desperately  in  love 
with  Robert  Gray,  and  never  for  a  moment  troubled  her 
head  or  her  heart  about  any  other  gallant  than  he.  He 
had  reached  her  heart  just  as  she  had  reached  his. 
And  to  tinge  the  affair  with  just  romance  enough  to 
throw  a  new  color  and  interest  around  the  whole  sub- 
ject, Mrs.  Clair  stepped  in  with  her  opposition.  This 
did  but  serve  to  kindle  their  zeal  anew. 

So  there  they  sat  together,  enjoying  themselves, 
while  the  widow  was  doing  her  best  to  try  to  make  Mr. 
Brimmer  enjoy  himself  too,  though  happily  ignorant  of 
the  state  of  affairs  in  the  other  room.  Kitty  looked  ex- 
ceedingly roguish,  and  Robert  looked  exceedingly 
pleased.  They  surely  must  have  been  laughing  be- 
tween themselves  about  Mr.  Brimmer's  coming  to  see 
Kitty's  mother ;  for  it  would  seem  as  if  no  other  matter 
could  have  given  their  enjoyment  such  a  relish. 

"  Is  Kitty  at  home  ? "  finally  broke  out  the  embar- 
19 


218  DOVECOTE. 

rassed  bachelor  in  the  other  room.  "  I  mean,  Mrs. 
Glair,  is  Miss  Kitty  at  home  ?  " 

Of  course  the  widow  was  greatly  surprised  with  such 
a  question  from  Mr.  Brimmer,  as  well  she  might  be, 
and,  possibly,  quite  as  much  chagrined  as  surprised. 
Few  young  widows  —  on  the  hither  side  of  forty,  for 
instance  —  ever  give  up  their  chances  ;  and  it  is  not  fair 
to  conclude  that  so  blooming  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Clair 
had  given  up  hers. 

So  she  only  looked  very  much  astonished,  and  stared 
strangely  all  about  the  room,  and  said,  "  Yes." 

Then  another  pause. 

"  Kitty  is  a  very  fine  girl,"  ventured  Mr.  Brimmer 
again. 

Mrs.  Clair  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  say  that  she 
thought  she  was. 

"  How  old  has  she  got  to  be,  Mrs.  Clair  ?  "  said  the 
bachelor.  "  I  declare,  she  has  come  up  so  fast  since  I 
lived  in  the  village  before,  I  shouldn't  pretend  to  know 
any  thing  of  her  age." 

"  She  is  about  eighteen,  Mr.  Brimmer,"  returned  the 
widow,  with  a  smile. 

That  smile  meant,  "  But  why  am  not  I  as  young  as 
she,  Mr.  Brimmer?  Take  another  look,  and  tell  me 
how  much  can  be  the  difference  between  us,  Mr.  Brim- 
mer ! " 

"  I  declare,"  said  he,  "  I  wouldn't  think  time  slipped 
away  so  fast !  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brimmer,"  returned  she,  trying  a  new 
tack,  "  we  shall  find  that  these  young  people  are  fast 
crowding  us  along.  We  can't  wait  for  them,  nor  can 
they  wait  for  us,"  —  she  hardly  knew  what  she  did  say 
to  him,  — "  but,  Mr.  Brimmer,  time  never  practises  de- 
ceits with  any  of  us." 


NOTHING  BUT  A  LOVE  STORY.          219 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  gave  a  quick  glance  at  his 
frosty  head,  and  then  threw  her  bright  eyes  into  the 
fire. 

"  I've  noticed  Kitty  very  often,"  said  the  bachelor. 
"  I've  noticed  her  in  meeting.  You  rarely  see  a  prettier 
face  there  than  hers,  Mrs.  Clair !  " 

He  thought  in  this  way  to  flatter  her  by  praising  her 
daughter ;  but  the  widow  had  just  beauty  enough  of 
her  own  —  and  a  pretty  good  knowledge  of  it,  besides  — 
to  be  a  trifle  jealous  of  his  compliments  to  Kitty.  And 
she  half  pouted  at  what  her  visitor  said. 

"  You  may  well  be  proud  of  your  daughter,"  con- 
tinued the  bachelor.  "  I'll  venture  to  say,  Mrs.  Clair, 
that  you  may  well  be  proud  of  her.  Egad !  but  I  wish 
I  had  such  a  daughter  myself !  She'd  be  a  treasure  in 
my  house ! " 

"  As  she  certainly  is  in  mine,"  interrupted  the  widow. 

"  But  you  say  she  is  at  home,  Mrs. " 

"  She  is  ;  yes,  sir,"  said  the  mother. 

"  And  can  I  see  her  ?  "  pursued  he. 

"  Certainly.  I  will  call  her  in  !  "  And  she  rose  from 
her  chair  to  do  as  she  offered. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Clair !  Mrs.  Clair !  "  caUed  the  bachelor, 
"  I  won't  trouble  you  !  I  have  only  a  word  in  —  only  a 
word  or  two  to  say  to  her ;  all  in  confidence,  Mrs.  Clair, 
—  all  in  confidence  !  Can't  I  just  step  into  the  room 
where  she  is,  now  ?  Yes,  let  me  go  right  in  there,  Mrs. 
Clair !  " 

He  had  reached  the  door  by  the  time  she  had  opened 
it,  and  got  through. 

"  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment  again,"  added  he,  turn- 
ing round  very  patronizingly  upon  her. 

So  she  consented  to  take  the  hint,  and  to  remain  pas- 
sively where  she  was. 


220  DOVECOTE. 

"  Some  one's  coming ! "  whispered  Kitty  and  her 
lover,  in  the  same  breath,  as  the  old  gentleman  laid  his 
hand  on  the  latch  of  their  door.  "  In  there !  in  that 
closet ! "  cried  Kitty,  rising  and  crowding  the  young 
man  into  as  small  and  dark  a  hole  as  ever  could  have 
been  made  for  a  closet.  "  Quick !  quick  ! "  and  it  was 
all  over.  Robert  was  to  be  seen  nowhere. 

Mr.  Brimmer  entered  the  room,  and  found  Kitty 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"  Good  evening  to  you,  pretty  Miss  Kitty  1 "  saluted 
he,  advancing  and  taking  her  hand. 

Her  face  was  deeply  flushed  with  excitement,  from 
having  been  obliged  to  pack  away  her  lover  in  such 
haste.  Mr.  Brimmer  saw  it,  and  charged  it  all  to  her 
modesty.  It  was  easier  for  him  to  do  so,  for  it  flattered 
himself. 

Now,  as  I  have  already  taken  occasion  to  observe, 
Mr.  Brimmer,  lover  though  he  probably  called  himself, 
was  a  much  better  man  of  business.  He  had  never  be- 
fore tried  to  make  love  to  a  woman,  and  it  would  place 
him  in  a  false  position  to  say  that  he  knew  how.  He 
carried  no  rules  about  him  but  those  of  trade  ;  and  the 
first  and  last  of  them  was,  "  Never  stop  for  ceremony ; 
but  push  ahead  !  " 

So  down  he  dropped  before  the  bewildered  Miss 
Kitty  upon  his  knees,  jarring  the  floor  till  the  little 
windows  shook  in  the  casements. 

The  jealous  as  well  as  inquisitive  widow  had  her  ear 
at  the  door ;  and  the  hidden  lover  in  the  closet  had  both 
his  ear  and  his  shoulder  in  a  position  exactly  similar. 

"  Miss  Kitty  Clair,"  said  the  bachelor,  rolling  up  his 
eyes  finely  at  her,  and  half  crossing  his  hands  over  his 
capacious  chest,  "  I  love  you,  Kitty  !  I  adore  you  !  I 
must  make  you  my  wife,  Kitty  !  " 


NOTHING    BUT    A    LOVE    STORY.  221 

Kitty  would  have  started  back ;  but  farther  than  the 
wall  she  could  not  go.  She  would  have  screamed ;  but 
that  she  dared  not  do.  She  had  the  greatest  respect  in 
the  world  for  that  respectable  old  bachelor,  Mr.  Brim- 
mer, and  could  not  for  the  life  of  her  think  what  she 
had  done  that  he  should  be  down  on  his  knees  before 
her.  She  felt  like  crying  for  very  fright. 

"  I  have  so  long  wanted  to  unburden  my  heart  to 
you ! "  said  he,  pressing  his  hand  hard  against  the  re- 
gion where  that  organ  is  supposed  to  be.  "  I  have 
loved  you  long,  Kitty !  Indeed,  Kitty  —  but  don't  be 
cruel  to  me  now  !  Be  my  wife,  Kitty !  be  my  wife ! 
You  shall  share  the  whole  of  my  fortune ;  and  your 
good  mother  shall  be  made  happy,  too  !  I  am  rich,  you 
know  !  I  have  a  great  deal  of  money  !  Only  say  you 
will  be  my  wife,  and  all  my  money  shall  be  yours  ! 
Say  the  word,  Kitty  !  Not  till  you  say  you  will  be  my 
wife  will  I  get  up  from  this  place  ! " 

Kitty  could  say  nothing.  She  wished  from  her  heart 
the  floor  would  open  and  swallow  her  up,  or  that  some 
one  would  lift  her  suddenly  out  of  sight  through  the 
ceiling. 

"  I  came  this  evening,  Kitty,"  resumed  the  persistent 
swain  on  his  knees,  "  expressly  to " 

The  closet  door,  too  heavily  borne  upon  by  the  hid- 
den lover,  suddenly  gave  way !  and  Mr.  Robert  Gray 
came  pitching  sprawlingly  forward,  exactly  before  the 
face  and  eyes  of  Mr.  Brimmer  ! 

Kitty  could  not  help  it,  and  set  up  a  loud  scream ; 
and  what  did  the  doughty  Mr.  Brimmer  do  but  scream 
likewise  !  • 

The  entry  door  opened  at  this  very  inopportune  mo- 
ment, and  in  bounced  the  widow,  her  face  as  red  as  if 
she  had  been  broiling  steaks  over  a  v.ery  warm  fire. 
19* 


222  DOVECOTE. 

There  still  knelt  the  bachelor,  his  hands  firmly  laid 
across  his  breast  in  his  fright,  as  in  the  act  of  laying 
vigorous  siege  to  Miss  Kitty's  heart !  and  there  sprawled 
the  prohibited  young  lover,  caught  at  last  in  the  entan- 
gling meshes  he  had  little  thought  woven  for  him  ! 

And  the  widow,  too  —  she  saw  it  all !  If  she  could 
have  felt  angry  at  the  presence  of  Kitty's  interdicted 
lover,  she  must  have  been  no  less  so  at  seeing  Mr. 
Brimmer  in  his  present  predicament. 

"  What's  the  matter ! "  exclaimed  both  the  widow 
and  Mr.  Brimmer  at  the  same  time. 

But  Mrs.  Clair  saw  what  the  matter  was  in  a  mo- 
ment ;  and  she  had  the  ready  tact  to  turn  it  all  to 
advantage,  too.  So  she  set  up  a  loud  and  musical 
laugh  at  the  bachelor,  clapping  her  hands. 

Kitty  saw  how  things  were  turning;  and  so  she 
laughed  too. 

And  Robert  felt  unusually  delighted  to  think  he  was 
not  himself  at  once  turned  out  of  doors,  and  picked 
himself  up  hurriedly  from  the  floor,  and  laughed  like- 
wise. 

And  so  there  was  a  perfect  shout  of  laughter  —  and 
all  about  Mr.  Brimmer. 

"  Making  love  to  Kitty ! "  exclaimed  the  widow ;  "  and 
her  lover  in  the  room  to  hear  you  !  Ha !  ha !  ha ! " 

Robert  felt  willing  to  do  any  thing,  short  of  breaking 
his  neck,  at  this  juncture,  in  return  for  so  friendly  an 
announcement  from  Kitty's  own  mother. 

Mr.  Brimmer  picked  himself  up  slowly,  and  rubbed 
his  knees,  and  looked  wildly  about  him,  as  if  he  had 
lost  something. 

"  Is  this  —  is  this "  and  here  he  stopped  short. 

"  It's  Kitty's  lover  !  "  exclaimed  the  widow,  laughing 
again. 


NOTHING  BUT  A  LOVE  STORY.          223 

And  then  all  three  laughed  once  more  in  unison. 

Mr.  Brimmer  laughed  himself.  And  then  he  thought 
he  would  tell  them  all  just  how  it  was,  and  how  badly 
he  wanted  a  wife ;  and  he  was  willing  to  take  the 
widow  herself —  if  she  would  but  keep  this  adventure 
of  his  a  secret ! 

So  the  widow  Clair  shortly  after  became  Mrs.  Brim- 
mer, and  moved  over  into  the  bachelor's  large  house ; 
and  Kitty,  became  in  time  Mrs.  Gray,  and  continued 
living  at  the  brown  cottage.  But  Mr.  Brimmer  insists 
that  his  eyesight  was  poor,  and  that  all  the  time  he 
meant  to  marry  the  widow,  even  when  he  was  down 
on  his  knees  before  Kitty  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  DOUBLE   SUBPKISE. 

MILLY  sometimes  loved  to  go  off  alone  on  her  ram- 
bles, as  if  solitude  were  sweet  to  her  young  heart. 

She  had  not  seen  her  old  friend  Daisy  in  some  time. 
But  as  she  happened  now  to  have  strolled  away  again 
by  herself,  she  found  her  sitting  under  the  shade  of  a 
great  oak  in  the  edge  of  the  meadow,  engaged  in  join- 
ing together  the  stems  of  the  wild  flowers  she  had 
gathered  in  her  lap. 

Daisy  started  up  on  hearing  an  approaching  footstep, 
and  looked  all  around  her. 

"  Ah !  you've  found  me  again ! "  exclaimed  she,  as 
soon  as  she  discovered  who  it  was.  "  Where've  you 
been  this  good  while  ?  " 

Milly  told  her,  "  Nowhere." 

"  That's  a  pleasant  place ! "  returned  the  little  outlaw. 
"  I'm  sure,  I'd  jest  as  lief  live  up  on  the  mountain ! 
But  why  don't  you  come  over  here  more  1 " 

"  Do  you  come  here  often  ?  "  asked  Milly. 

"  Pretty  often ;  sometimes  two  or  three  times  a  week." 

"  You  do  ! " 

"  If  you'd  only  come  before,  you'd  seen  me  a  good 
many  times.  I've  missed  you." 

Milly  sat  down  beside  her  in  the  welcome  shade,  and 
watched  her  while  she  resumed  her  pleasant  labor. 

"  What  do  you  do  that  for  ? "  she  asked. 

"  O,  jest  for  fun.    Do  you  ever  do  any  thing  for  fun  ?" 

(924) 


A    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  225 

She  couldn't  exactly  say.  Poor  child !  little  had  been 
the  room  for  fun  in  a  life  so  thick  with  changes  as  hers ! 

"  Do  you  wear  them  round  your  neck  ? "  continued 
she. 

"  Sometimes  ;  I  put  'em  on  sometimes  Sundays  ;  and 
then  old  Jarvie  seems  to  think  I  look  so  pretty  ! " 

Milly  thought  she  certainly  ought  to. 

"  Where  do  you  find  all  these  pretty  flowers  ?  I 
never  see  them  in  the  meadows." 

"  No ;  they  grow  in  the  woods.  I  bring  'em  down 
with  me  as  I  come  along ;  and  then,  you  see,  I  mix 
'em  in  with  the  medder  flowers.  What's  that?"  she 
suddenly  exclaimed,  lowering  her  voice  to  an  ominous 
whisper. 

"What?"  asked  Milly. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  somebody  a-steppin'  ?     /  did." 

"  No,"  answered  the  other. 

Just  then  Daisy  rose  to  her  feet,  and  looked  round 
behind  her. 

"  There !  who's  that  ? "  exclaimed  she,  in  a  sup- 
pressed voice. 

Milly  looked  round  too.  As  she  caught  sight  of  the 
advancing  figure,  she  gave  utterance  to  a  cry,  half  of 
gladness,  and  half  of  astonishment. 

A  man  came  rapidly  towards  her,  holding  out  both 
arms.  He  was  much  attenuated,  and  seemed  extremely 
worn  with  travel.  His  face  was  faintly  illumined  with 
a  smile,  which  grew  brighter  and  broader  as  he  came 
nearer  her. 

The  intruder  was  Adam  Drowne — old  Adam  Drowne, 
the  wanderer,  late  of  the  Byeboro'  poorhouse. 

Milly  could  hardly  speak,  so  much  overcome  was  she. 
He,  however,  seized  one  of  her  hands  with  both  his 


226  DOVECOTE. 

own,  and  began  to  give  utterance  to  his  questions  and 
exclamations  in  the  most  voluble  style. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  Where  did  you  come  from  ? 
O,  how  glad  I  am  to  find  you  once  more  ! "  Another 
squeeze  of  her  hand.  "  What  ever  separated  us  ?  I 
was  so  careless,  too  !  Poor  Milly  !  what  did  she  think 
of  it  ?  Did  she  think  I  was  trying  to  run  away  from 
her  ?  But  how  fresh  you  are !  so  much  better  than 
you  was  over  to  Byeboro' !  Do  you  live  here  ?  Do 
you  know  any  body  here  ?  How  did  you  find  the 
way  ?  Poor  Milly  !  you  don't  know  how  much  I  missed 
you ! " 

Daisy  listened  and  looked  on  with  profound  astonish- 
ment. It  passed  her  comprehension  to  understand  how 
it  was  Milly  ever  knew  such  a  man  as  that. 

But  old  Adam  broke  in  upon  her  reveries  immedi- 
ately. 

"Do  you  live  with  her,  too  ?    Are  you  her  sister  ?    You 
look  something  alike,  though." 

Daisy  told  him  that  they  did  not  live  together,  and 
that,  though  they  might  not  be  sisters  exactly,  she 
thought  she  loved  Milly  as  much  already  as  if  she  were 
her  sister. 

Adam  asked  her  then  where  she  lived. 

She  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  mountain,  and 
said,  "  Up  there." 

"  And  where  do  you  live,  Milly  ?  "  persisted  he,  look- 
ing very  earnestly  into  her  innocent  face. 

"  'Way,  'way  over  back  here,"  she  answered,  looking 
over  her  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  Dovecote. 

Then  he  sat  down  near  the  girls,  and  began,  in  his 
way,  to  tell  Milly  by  what  mischance  it  was  he  lost  her 
at  the  landing,  and  how  deeply  he  had  lamented  her 


A    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  227 

loss  every  day  since.  He  told  her  how  steadily  he  had 
kept  wandering,  from  that  time  to  this,  in  the  hope  of 
somewhere  meeting  with  her  again ;  and  here,  in  this 
most  unexpected  of  spots,  he  had  finally  found  her  ! 

They  sat  and  talked  for  some  time,  and  began  at 
length  to  feel  better  acquainted  on  all  sides.  Daisy 
finally  proposed  to  take  Milly  up  to  the  hut  again,  and 
told  Adam  that  he  might  come  along  too,  if  he  liked. 
So  they  went  up  together. 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  Milly  was  there  ;  and 
she  very  naturally  fell  into  enthusiastic  encomiums  of 
the  place  for  the  benefit  solely  of  her  old  friend  Adam. 
He  gave  good  ear  to  all  the  child  had  to  say,  apparently 
much  interested  in  her  fresh  descriptions. 

Adam  seemed  charmed  with  the  views  he  got  from 
the  many  resting-places  by  the  way,  standing  and 
gazing  in  silent  delight. 

"  Thafs  where  I  live ! "  finally  exclaimed  Milly,  point- 
ing off  over  the  landscape.  "  Thafs  Dovecote  ! " 

Adam  looked  with  all  his  eyes. 

At  last  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"A  pleasant  place,  Milly!  Do  you  want  to  stay 
there  ? " 

"  O,  always  ! "  answered  the  child.  "  I  love  my 
friends  there  very  much." 

"  It's  some  such  place  as  that  I  was  after  for  you," 
said  he,  "when  we  left  Byeboro'.  I'm  glad  you've 
found  it." 

For  several  minutes  he  stood  regarding  the  spot 
His  eyes  roved  about  the  roofs  and  the  grounds,  and 
he  appeared  to  be  measuring  the  ample  acres  that 
stretched  away  in  the  rear. 

"  A  good  home,  child  ! "  he  mused. 

They  started  on  again.     After  a  long  climb,  and  after 


228  DOVECOTE. 

Milly  had  become  very  weary  with  her  exertions,  and 
had  declined  again  and  again  Adam's  urgent  offers  to 
carry  her  on  a  little  way,  they  reached  the  desired  spot 
Adam  looked  closely  at  every  object  about  him,  though 
he  ventured  to  ask  no  questions. 

Daisy  conducted  them  in.  Adam  sat  down  upon  the 
bench,  while  the  cat  stuck  up  her  back,  and  waited 
only  for  Daisy  to  give  the  signal  for  her  to  tear  his 
eyes  out 

They  had  been  seated  but  a  few  minutes,  when  a 
shadow  fell  across  the  door ;  and  all  eyes  were  intent 
to  catch  a  view  of  the  new  comer. 

Jarvie  entered,  and  looked  about  him. 

The  moment  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  face  of  old  Adam, 
his  expression  grew  very  strange,  and  his  lips  became 
almost  white.  There  was  perfect  silence  for  at  least 
a  minute.  Adam's  countenance  fell  greatly,  and  his 
hands  trembled  with  the  new  excitement 

"  Adam  Drowne  ! "  exclaimed  Jarvie,  dwelling  delib- 
erately on  every  syllable. 

No  answer,  however,  from  the  intruder. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?"  said  Jarvie,  after  another  pause 
"  Why  do  you  follow  me  round  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  I  knew  nothing  that  you  lived  here,"  answered 
Adam.  "  I  didn't  think  of  seeing  you." 

His  eyes  now  fixed  themselves  upon  the  face  of 
Daisy.  There  was  some  expression  there,  hidden  or 
half  brought  out,  that  riveted  his  gaze.  Now  for  the 
first  time,  too,  he  thought  he  detected  some  faint  resem- 
blance between  her  lineaments  and  those  of  Milly; 
and  the  longer  he  looked,  the  more  palpable  the  thought 
grew.  A  new  emotion  sprang  up  within  him,  which  it 
took  quite  all  his  energy  to  control. 

Jarvie,  on  his  part,  studied  Adam's  features  with  the 


A    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  229 

strangest  interest.  A  dark  frown  settled  on  his  fore- 
head, and  the  muscles  about  his  mouth  moved  convul- 
sively. 

They  had  met  before  —  these  two  strange  beings. 
They  were  well  known  each  to  the  other.  This  was 
but  the  old  acquaintance  renewed. 

The  girls  regarded  both  of  them  in  wonder.  Milly 
was  astonished  to  know  that  Adam  had  thus  found  a 
second  acquaintance  in  finding  her ;  and  Daisy  looked 
still  more  so  to  see  a  sight  of  which  she  would  never 
have  dreamed. 

Adam  kept  his  seat  on  the  bench,  while  Jarvie  moved 
not  from  the  position  he  had  taken  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

20 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

OLD  TOPICS  KEVIVED. 

"How  come  you  'way  up  here?"  broke  out  Jarvie 
Thatch  again.  "  I  never'd  thought  thunder 'd  found  me 
up  here  !  How  did  you  git  up  ?  " 

Adam  only  pointed  significantly  to  the  children. 

"  They  brought  ye  ? " 

He  nodded  assent. 

"  But  how  did  ye  find  them  ?     Where  did  ye  ?  " 

"  Yonder  in  the  meadow,"  answered  Adam,  in  a  very 
low  voice. 

"  In  the  medder  ?  What  was  you  doin'  in  the  med- 
der,  Daisy  ?  It's  too  fur  from  home,  by  all  odds.  The 
cat  ain't  enough  to  keep  house  alone,  neither.  You 
mustn't  go  so  fur,  Daisy." 

"  La !  it  was  only  a  little  bit  of  a  run  down  the 
mountain,"  returned  she.  "  I  can  go  it  in  two  minutes." 

"  Where's  Mary  ? "  inquired  Adam  of  Jarvie,  in  a 
tone  betokening  the  deepest  melancholy. 

"  Say  nothing  about  her  to  me,"  answered  Jarvie ; 
"  say  nothing  about  her ! " 

"  Is  she  here  ?  Does  she  live  with  you  now  ?  "  per- 
sisted he,  regardless  of  the  injunction. 

Jarvie  shook  his  head,  and  looked  down  to  the  floor. 
His  entire  manner  suddenly  changed. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  Mary  again,  if  you'd  let  me,"  said 
Adam.  "  She  was  very  dear  to  me,  you  know.  Mary ! 
Mary  !  ah,  yes,  indeed,  do  I  remember  her  !  She  was 

(230) 


OLD    TOPICS    KEVIVED.  231 

the  only  idol  my  heart  ever  set  up.  She  loved  me  once, 
too,  I  verily  believe." 

"  Witt  you  stop  this  ?  "  demanded  Jarvie,  in  a  very 
much  louder  voice. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  Mary  again.  I  really  wish  I 
could.  I  guess  she'd  be  glad  enough  to  see  me  now. 
Why  can't  I  see  her  ?  Why  won't  you  tell  me  where 
she  is  ? " 

Jarvie  stood  and  looked  all  sorts  of  threatenings  at 
him.  But  he  heeded  them  not  at  all.  He  kept  on 
with  his  talk. 

"  When  you  turned  me  away  before,  I  felt  that  she 
loved  me.  I  know  she  does  now." 

"  I  never  turned  you  away !  She  did  it  herself,  if 
'twas  done  at  all !  " 

"  Poor  Mary !  poor  Mary ! "  groaned  out  Adam.  "  She 
was  the  one  I  loved  so  much  !  She  was  the  girl  that 
all  the  rest  of  'em  envied !  "  He  kept  his  eyes  intently 
fixed  on  Daisy,  while  he  spoke  of  the  old  object  of  his 
idolatry.  "  How  I  loved  her  no  one'll  ever  know  !  She 
was  a  dear,  a  dear  good  creature  !  " 

"  I  wish  you'd  stop,"  said  Jarvie. 

Adam  looked  quickly  up  at  him,  and  saw  the  tears 
swimming  in  his  eyes.  It  struck  a  strange  sensation  to 
his  heart. 

"  Where  is  Mary  ?  "  he  asked,  more  rapidly.  "  Where 
is  she  ?  Tell  me,  and  let  me  go  find  her  !  I  haven't 
seen  her  in  so  long  !  " 

"  You'll  never  see  her  agin  !  "  said  Jarvie,  shaking  his 
head  dolefully.  "  You'll  never  see  her  agin  !  " 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  he,  in  a  hollow  voice.     "  Dead  ? " 

His  countenance  visibly  betrayed  his  emotion. 

"  Dead ! "  repeated  Jarvie,  for  his  answer.  "  But 
worse  than  dead  before  she  went !  " 


A6&  DOVECOTE. 

"  O  Heaven ! "  cried  the  forlorn  lover,  beating  his 
temple  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  Dead  !  —  dead  ! 
Does  it  seem  so  to  me  to-day  ?  What  have  /  been  liv- 
ing for  all  this  time  ?  Why  did  I  wait  so  long  ?  Why 
haven't  J  gone,  too  ?  Dead  !  —  dead  !  Poor  — poor 
Mary ! " 

He  sat,  for  some  moments  after,  wrapped  in  the 
solemn  drapery  of  his  own  thoughts.  His  head  was 
bent  forward,  and  his  eyes  brooded  on  the  floor.  The 
whole  apartment  was  hushed  in  silence.  Even  Jarvie 
Thatch  himself  acknowledged  the  secret  influence  of 
the  moment. 

Daisy  looked  surprisedly  around  upon  all,  and  Milly 
little  less  so.  This  was  a  scene  neither  had  been  pre- 
pared to  greet.  They  exchanged  glances  occasionally, 
as  if  to  communicate  their  perfect  inability  to  compre- 
hend the  meaning  of  it  all. 

At  length  Adam  broke  forth  again. 

"  Then  Mary's  dead !     I  hope  she  died  happy." 

"  She  died  wretched,"  said  Jarvie ;  "  very  wretched ! " 

"  What  made  her  ? "  pursued  Adam. 

"  Then  you  don't  know  of  it  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word ;  not  a  syllable." 

"  When  she  turned  you  off " 

"  O  that  she  had  never  left  me  for  another  !  "  inter- 
rupted Adam,  in  an  agony.  "  She  missed  it ;  I  know 
she  missed  it ! " 

"  She  saw  another  person." 

"  Just  as  I  guessed  !     That  was  what  did  it !  " 

"  He  was  a  man  that  we  thought  loved  her ;  at  any 
rate,  there's  little  mistake  that  she  loved  him  " 

"  Poor — poor  Mary  !  " 

"  He  said  he  would  marry  her " 


OLD    TOPICS    REVIVED.  233 

"  And  did  he  ?     Yes,  that's  what  I  want  to  know  ! 


"  He  never  did,"  answered  Jarvie. 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  Adam,  sorrowfully.  "  So  I 
thought.  I  guess  I  know  the  rest." 

"  It  was  a  terrible  thing  for  me  ;  but  I  -  " 

"  O,  but  you  should  have  let  her  had  me'!  It 
wouldn't  have  come  to  this,  then  !  " 

"  She  couldn't  have  you  !  "  spoke  Jarvie,  with  much 
decisiveness.  "  It  wasn't  to  be  !  " 

"  She  would,  if  she  had  known,"  said  Adam,  equally 
prompt.  "  But  she's  gone  !  " 

"  No,"  continued  Jarvie,  "  she  never  married  at  all. 
When  this  man  deserted  her,  her  heart  seemed  to 
break.  She  gave  all  up,  and  with  her  last  breath  she 
told  me  to  care  for  the  little  one  she  left  behind. 
That's  the  one,"  added  he,  nodding  slightly  in  the 
direction  of  Daisy,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  tone. 

Adam  looked  at  her  again  with  increased  interest. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  her  through. 

"  So  I  thought  !  "  exclaimed  he,  in  a  low  voice,  as  to 
himself.  "  So  I  said  to  myself,  the  very  first  minute  I 
laid  eyes  on  her." 

"  She's  a  dear,  good  child,"  said  Jarvie. 

"  If  she's  like  her  mother,  she's  a  darling,"  added  the 
other.     "  She  has  got  her  look,  too." 
Jarvie  shook  his  head  again  ;  and  again  Adam  sighed, 
"  Poor  Mary  !  she's  gone,  then  !  " 

There  was  another  period  of  silence. 

"  You've  come  here  for  nothin',  have  ye  ?  "  asked  old 
Jarvie  again,  looking  suddenly  up  in  his  face. 

"  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here." 

"  Wai,  do  ye  want  any  thing  more  ?  " 
20* 


234  DOVECOTE. 

"  I  should  ha'  been  so  glad  to  see  Mary — poor  Mary; 
but  I  can't.  She's  dead  !  poor,  dear  Mary  !  " 

"  She  never  cared  for  you  any,"  said  Jarvie.  "  'Twas 
all  on  your  side." 

"  Umph !  "  ejaculated  Adam.  "  Mary  loved  me ;  I 
know  she  did !  She  got  deceived  in  this  one  ;  that  was 
it!" 

"  Have  it  so,  then.  I  happen  to  know  best."  The 
eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  their  looks  kindled 
much.  "  At  any  rate,"  continued  Jarvie,  "  you  ain't 
in  my  way  as  you  used  to  be.  She's  gone  now,  poor 
girl!" 

"  Yes,  she's  gone  !  Did  she  leave  any  word  for  me, 
though  ?  " 

The  man's  foolishness  seemed  all  to  come  back  to 
him  with  the  question.  He  became  the  demented,  half- 
idiot  being  he  had  for  so  many  years  been  considered 
by  every  one  who  knew  him. 

"  Not  a  syllable,"  answered  the  other  to  his  question. 

He  mused  a  moment 

"  Didn't  she  speak  my  name  ?  "      • 

"  Not  so  much  as  your  name." 

"  Poor  Mary !  she  was  played  a  false  part  with ! 
I  would  I  could  find  the  one  that  did  so  cruel  a 
wrong ! " 

"  You  can't,  though.     You'll  never  do  that,  Adam." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  you  can't ! "  repeated  Jarvie,  with  addition- 
al emphasis.  "  That  business  is  all  left  for  me.  It's  all 
my  own  !  Nobody  shall  take  it  away  from  me  !  " 

Adam  relapsed  into  another  fit  of  silence,  holding 
down  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  floor.  Jarvie  left  him  in  this  attitude,  and  went 
about  the  little  business  he  had  in  hand. 


OLD    TOPICS    REVIVED.  235 

It  was  just  the  time,  too,  for  Daisy  to  steal  out; 
which  she  accordingly  did,  conducting  Milly  along 
with  her.  They  began  to  move  off  down  the  moun- 
tain again. 

In  a  half  hour,  Milly  was  in  her  own  dear,  delightful 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXXHL 

THE  RUSTIC  BBEDGE. 

OVEE  by  a  back  road,  perhaps  a  half  mile  or  more 
from  the  old  homestead,  a  rude  bridge  leaped  the  stream 
where  it  began  to  debouch  into  a  glassy  little  basin,  and 
flung  down  its  black  shadows  into  the  water. 

It  was  no  great  of  a  bridge,  as  people  would  be  apt 
to  say ;  that  is,  you  would  find  no  architectural  skill  de- 
veloped in  its  construction,  further  than  what  was  com- 
mon to  plain,  country  bridge  builders.  There  was  no 
turreted  parapet  to  it ;  only  a  simple  rail,  spiked  down 
to  rude  uprights  of  half-hewn  logs.  It  had  no  approved 
curvature  or  span  that  would  be  likely  to  catch  the  eyes 
of  passers  ;  and  there  certainly  could  be  little  for  them 
to  see  in  its  gaping  chinks,  through  which  the  dust  and 
sand  rattled  down,  except  the  shadowed  and  sullen 
water  below,  swirling  softly  round  the  smooth  and  slimy 
logs,  and  rippling  noiselessly  through  a  growth  of  coarse 
sedge  that  fringed  the  bank  just  beyond. 

Yet  it  was  strikingly  picturesque,  as  all  such  objects 
are  apt  to  be.  On  one  side,  you  could  see  the  little 
stream  come  creeping  out  from  the  dense  shrubbery 
that  crowded  down  to  its  banks,  like  a  shy  Naiad  just 
coming  out  from  the  seclusion  of  her  woodland  home. 
On  the  other,  the  current  wound,  and  circled,  and  twist- 
ed—  like  a  huge  serpent  writhing  in  the  grass  —  down 
through  the  open  meadow,  between  high  clumps  of 
coarse  grass  that  rolled  pleasantly  in  the  lazy  tide  of 

(236) 


THE    RUSTIC    BRIDGE.  237 

the  summer  wind,  and  among  low  and  stunted  osiers, 
where  little  birds  built  their  nests,  and  green  frogs 
plumped,  with  a  shrill  cry  of  alarm,  into  the  water. 

I  loved  to  stand  upon  the  little  bridge  of  a  clear 
morning  in  spring,  lolling  lazily  against  the  railing,  and 
watching  the  bobbing  of  my  fishing  floats  upon  the 
water.  It  filled  my  heart  with  heaven  to  hear  the 
melody  of  the  birds  in  the  willows  above  the  bridge, 
chattering  together  in  their  little  colonies,  skimming  the 
water  for  insects,  or  rocking  on  the  tips  of  the  long- 
speared  grasses. 

On  such  mornings,  it  seemed  as  if  life  were  a  pleas- 
ure for  only  its  own  sake  —  as  if  the  very  thought  of 
existence  were  enough  to  intoxicate  one  with  joy. 
There  was  that  balm  and  vigor  in  the  atmosphere,  filled 
with  odors  from  flower  banks  on  a  thousand  hillsides 
and  in  a  thousand  meadows  ;  there  was  such  a  genial 
glow  in  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine,  flooding  river,  and 
valley,  and  plain ;  there  was  such  a  constantly  titillating 
feeling  in  the  veins,  as  the  morning  airs  braced  them, 
and  the  morning  sun  stirred  them  afresh  with  its  con- 
tagious heat ;  there  was  that  rich  bound  to  the  heart, 
filled  full  with  its  ripe  impulses,  and  going  out  freely  to 
meet  every  new-born  influence. 

Fish  of  different  kinds  darted  swiftly  between  the 
narrow  and  blackened  piers,  or  played  leisurely  about 
the  water-soaked  logs,  or  sculled  their  steady  way 
across  the  stream  to  some  well-known  haunt  beneath 
the  scooped-out  embankment.  I  could  see  the  young 
pickerel,  with  their  piratical-looking  jaws,  just  learning 
themselves  to  bear  down  boldly  on  small  craft  weaker 
than  they ;  and  little  minnows,  driving  along  in  shoals 
to  intercept  some  waif  that  was  floating  down  with  the 
stream,  as  if  to  hail  it  respecting  its  course  ;  and  slimy 


238  DOVECOTE. 

suckers,  with  great  pouting  mouths,  and  black  backs 
with  white  bellies,  drifting  from  one  position  in  the  mud 
and  sand  to  another ;  and  golden-hued  roach,  active  and 
anxious  always  —  now  here,  now  there,  and  again  rising 
to  the  surface  for  a  taste  of  what  looked  palatable  ;  and 
perch,  and  bream,  and  all  other  such  fish  as  haunt  quiet 
and  sedgy  country  waters. 

Many  and  many  a  morning  have  I  filled  my  little 
creel,  made  rudely  of  osiers,  with  fresh  captives  from 
the  stream  near  this  rustic  bridge.  There  were  all  sorts 
and  sizes  messed  strangely  together  there  —  white  and 
black,  yellow  and  brown,  and  red,  all  united  their 
colors ;  and  I  know  too  well  that  my  heart  could  not 
have  swelled  with  half  the  pride,  had  I  held  up  that 
same  basket  filled  with  gold  before  the  delighted  eyes 
of  my  mother.  I  never  failed  to  get  a  word  of  com- 
mendation for  my  skill.  I  thought  nothing  of  the 
patience,  then.  I  charged  every  thing  to  skill  only. 

There  were  beds  of  lilies,  too,  fringing  the  stream ; 
and  a  picture  could  in  no  wise  have  been  made  more 
charming  on  canvas  than  this.  They  looked  like  a 
dainty  ruffle  for  the  little  river,  white  and  yellow  sweet- 
ly intermingled.  Their  broad,  leathery  leaves  lay 
spread  out  upon  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  beneath 
their  sufficient  shadows  pickerel  were  wont  to  lurk,  and 
lazy  suckers  to  doze  away  the  long  days.  Gaudy  flies 
went  skimming  about  them,  now  alighting  a  moment  to 
rock  so  gently  on  the  wave,  and  then  cleaving  the  sun- 
lit air  again  with  their  painted  wings.  I  could  see  the 
shapes  of  the  shadows,  as  the  leaves  threw  them  down 
on  the  bed  of  the  river,  blotching  it  after  the  most  fan- 
tastic devices. 

Swift  swallows  went  careering  up  and  down  the  sur- 
face of  the  stream,  scouring  the  open  meadow  below, 


THE    RUSTIC    BRIDGE.  239 

and  wheeling  back  under  the  bridge  to  hide  themselves 
in  the  thick  bushes  above.  The  air  was  sometimes 
filled  with  their  shrill  twitterings.  Even  such  ethereal 
things  as  butterflies,  of  the  daintiest  colors  known, 
would  straggle  away  on  careless  wing  to  the  dark  arch, 
and  hover  coquettishly  about  the  dank  and  decaying 
beams,  filling  my  young  heart  with  pictures  of  the 
strangest  contrasts  imaginable. 

Whenever  a  wagon  crossed  the  bridge,  the  rattling  of 
the  horses'  hoofs  loosened  the  timbers  and  sent  down 
streaks  of  sand  and  gravel  into  the  black  water  beneath ; 
and  I  could  see  the  little  fish  darting  away  in  every  di- 
rection from  sudden  fright,  and  long  afterward  coming 
together  again  to  take  counsel  of  their  danger.  Over 
this  same  rustic  structure  went  loads  of  fragrant  hay,  in 
its  season,  with  glad  boys  tossing  each  other  about  on 
the  tops,  and  the  oxen  crouching  and  bending  under  the 
weight  of  the  yoke.  Across  this  bridge,  too,  trundled 
fanners'  wagons,  laden  with  produce  of  all  kinds  for  the 
distant  market,  and  creaking  with  the  weight  of  their 
burdens.  Rosy-cheeked  girls  rolled  over  it  on  their  way 
to  the  village  church ;  or  slid  across  it  to  some  distant 
rendezvous  in  the  brisk  sleighing  time,  muffled  in  robes 
and  furs.  It  was,  indeed,  a  bridge  that  none  could  rea- 
sonably find  fault  with,  for  there  was  not  one  whom  it 
did  not  carry  safely  over. 

By  the  hour  one  could  dream  the  pleasantest  dreams, 
leaning  on  its  rail  and  looking  over  the  landscape. 
Quiet  thoughts  seemed  to  flock  there,  perhaps  sailing 
and  drifting  thither  on  the  swimming  flood.  They  ed- 
died round  the  sunken  logs  and  timbers,  just  as  the 
water  circled  them  in  its  soft  embrace.  Naiads  dwelt 
all  up  and  down  the  meadows,  and  each  had  a  charming 
nook  within  the  long,  tufted  grass  and  the  waving  wil- 


240  DOVECOTE. 

lows.  Visions  of  life,  of  the  great  world  beyond  my 
reach,  swam  in  the  clear  water,  like  rare  pictures  set  in 
crystal  frames.  Hopes  danced  gayly  up  and  down  the 
brimming  stream,  sweeping,  in  their  flashing  apparel, 
across  my  busy  brain. 

It  was  at  the  old  bridge  that  I  have  lived  many  of  my 
pleasantest  hours.  But  it  has  sunk  down  to  its  rest  in 
the  water  now,  and  a  new  one,  with  looks  of  far  greater 
pretension,  has  usurped  its  place.  Time  and  tide  to- 
gether were  too  much  for  so  rude  a  structure. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MISS  NANCY  IN  TOWN. 

IT  was  a  delicious  summer  morning  when  the  old 
brown  horse  drove  up  before  the  door,  and  Miss  Nancy 
climbed  into  the  wagon  after  her  trunk.  She  was 
going  to  take  the  stage  at  the  village  inn. 

Milly's  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears.  She  half 
wanted  to  go,  and  still  she  could  not  seriously  think  of 
leaving  this  spot,  where  she  found  so  much  happiness. 
As  her  old  friend  rode  away,  still  looking  tenderly 
behind  her,  the  child  burst  into  tears  in  good  earnest. 
It  took  quite  all  our  exertions,  as  well  as  our  sympa- 
thies, to  pacify  her. 

When  Miss  Nancy  arrived  in  town,  she  went  to  visit 
her  old  and  particular  friend  Mrs.  Trevor.  She  was  a 
widow  lady,  with  no  children,  whose  husband  had  left 
her  in  possession  of  a  large  property.  Her  residence 
was  exceedingly  pleasant ;  and  all  she  seemed  now  to 
desire  was  the  visits  of  her  friends. 

Miss  Nancy  Gregory  and  she  were  old  schoolmates, 
and  from  early  days  had  been  much  attached  to  one 
another.  A  standing  invitation  was  continually  urging 
the  former  to  make  the  house  of  the  latter  her  home 
for  as  large  a  part  of  the  year  as  she  would ;  yet  an 
annual  visit  was  about  all  she  attempted  usually,  her 
relationship  with  Dovecote  being  in  every  sense  so 
close  and  delightful  an  one.  This  was  the  occasion  of 
one  of  her  visits. 

21  C*1) 


242  DOVECOTE. 

She  had  been  at  Mrs.  Trevor's  some  time  already, 
when  the  latter  one  day  proposed  to  her -to  go  and  see 
a  poor  woman  with  whom  she  had  left  some  sewing. 

"  She  interests  me  so  much,"  added  Mrs.  Trevor, 
"  that  I  feel  you  will  be  repaid  for  your  walk.  She  has 
a  couple  of  daughters,  too — very  pretty  girls,  but  appar- 
ently not  habituated  to  such  a  life  as  they  are  obliged 
to  lead." 

Miss  Nancy  signified  at  once  her  desire  to  accom- 
pany her,  and  they  set  forth. 

Their  way  took  them  into  some  very  retired  streets, 
where  few  people,  and  those  apparently  of  the  poorer 
classes,  were  to  be  seen  passing.  These  streets  were 
quite  narrow,  and  contained  high  and  narrow  houses, 
into  which  families  were  packed  by  the  layer.  Beauti- 
ful as  the  sky  looked  from  the  thoroughfare,  it  became 
dismal  when  seen  from  between  these  high  rows  of 
dwellings. 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  very  peculiar  case,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Trevor,  as  they  walked  on.  "  I  haven't  met  with  any 
like  it  recently." 

"  A  widow  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Nancy. 

"  Yes  ;  so  she  said." 

"  Know  any  thing  of  her  previous  circumstances  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  except  what  she  is  disposed  to  hint ; 
and  that  is  but  little  indeed.  But  she  has  seen  trouble, 
and  of  the  deepest  character  ;  that  is  evident." 

They  came  to  a  darkened  entry  way  at  length,  through 
which  they  passed,  and  proceeded  up  a  single  flight  of 
steps. 

"  This  is  her  door,"  said  Mrs.  Trevor,  and  knocked. 

It  was  opened  after  a  moment's  delay,  during  which 
there  could  be  heard  an  unusual  bustle  within ;  and  a 
woman  stood  before  them. 


MISS    NANCY    IN    TOWN.  243 

"  Good  morning ! "  saluted  Mrs.  Trevor,  lighting  up 
the  very  passage  with  her  smile.  "  I  have  come  to  see 
you  about  that  last  piece  of  work  you  took  from  me." 

The  woman  received  her  without  a  syllable  of  wel- 
come, opening  the  door  wider  to  allow  both  to  pass. 

She  was  no  other  than  Mrs.  Trevelyn,  the  old-time 
acquaintance  of  Milly  herself. 

Miss  Nancy,  however,  knew  nothing  of  it,  nor  was 
she  now  supposed  to  be  in  any  better  way  of  learning 
so  interesting  a  fact.  The  unhappy  woman  had  buried 
herself  from  the  notice  of  the  world,  and  hidden  even 
her  name  under  a  fiction.  She  had  cast  off  all  that 
belonged  to  her  in  her  better  condition. 

The  apartment  was  small,  and  but  scantily  furnished. 
There  was  a  strip  of  cheap  carpet  covering  a  part  of 
the  floor,  and  a  few  plain  chairs  stood  round  against  the 
walls.  Two  beds  were  in  a  little  room  just  beyond, 
and  on  the  floor  of  this  there  was  no  carpet  at  all. 
Every  object  betokened  poverty  —  poverty  that  pinched 
and  tyrannized. 

A  small  stand  was  drawn  near  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  a  low  rocking  chair  stood  next  it,  from  which 
the  woman  had  apparently  risen  to  admit  her  visitors. 
She  regarded  Miss  Nancy  with  a  close  and  scrutinizing 
look  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  eyes  wandered  away. 
If  the  latter  could  but  have  known  her  name,  with 
what  a  surprise  might  she  not  have  overwhelmed  her ! 

In  the  room  likewise  sat  a  couple  of  girls.  They 
were  very  young  in  their  appearance,  and  grief  and 
trouble  had  already  marked  their  countenances  deeply. 
One  was  trying  to  hem  a  handkerchief,  —  probably 
some  work  her  mother  had  taken  in,  —  and  the  other 
sat  looking  towards  the  window,  her  hands  folded  in 
her  lap.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  sorrowful  in 
the  extreme. 


244  DOVECOTE. 

Mrs.  Trevor  sat  down,  and  so  did  Miss  Nancy. 

"  I  didn't  want  you  to  hitrry  so  much  about  those 
plain  dresses,"  said  the  former  to  the  unhappy  stitcher : 
"  I  find  there's  no  great  need  of  it.  You  can,  therefore, 
lake  your  own  time  about  it." 

"  Then  I  am  glad,"  returned  the  woman.  "  I've  had 
more  to  do  lately  than  I  can  do.  I  don't  know  what's  to 
come.  And  yet,  with  all  my  work,  I  hardly  keep  along." 

"  Then  you  shall  have  more  for  what  you  do  for  me." 

The  woman  looked  up  in  her  face,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  You  are  very  kind  already,"  said  she,  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"  But  you  mustn't  want,  you  know." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to,  as  long  as  I  can  work.  But  I  am 
obliged  to  keep  very  close  to  it.  Sometimes  I  half 
despair,  the  future  looks  so  dark  to  me ;  but  not  so 
gloomy  as  the  past." 

The  last  remark  seemed  momentarily  to  throw  her 
into  a  revery. 

"  Your  history  is  full  of  interest,"  said  Mrs.  Trevor. 
"  I  know  it." 

The  woman  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Interest  to  nobody  but  myself  now,"  replied  she, 
with  a  slow  shake  of  her  head ;  "  nobody  but  myself." 

"  You  should  be  sure  of  that  before  you  say  it.  I 
think  I  can  sympathize  with  you  in  all  your  suffering." 

"  I  do  not  want  proof  of  that,  my  dear  madam,"  was 
the  answer.  "  If  I  did,  I  don't  know  where  else  I 
could  go." 

"  Then  why  not  allow  me  to  share  your  troubles  with 
you  ? " 

"  How  can  I  ?     How  can  any  one  divide  his  grief? " 

"  But  I  might  be  of  some  assistance,  little  though  it 
is.  I  might  give  advice." 


MISS    NANCY    IN    TOWN.  245 

The  woman  said  nothing. 

"  You  have  been  in  better  circumstances  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Trevor,  trying  to  draw  her  out. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  But  that  is  past.  I  would  not  think  of 
that  now." 

"  By  what  accident  of  fortune  was  it  that  you  were 
first  brought  to  your  present  condition  ?  I  know  it  was 
something  hard  to  bear.  Your  look  betrays  that  much." 

She  only  sighed,  and  shook  her  head,  falling  the  more 
intently  to  her  work.  The  countenance  of  the  girl  who 
was  engaged  in  looking  out  the  window  perceptibly 
fell,  and  the  shadow  of  her  grief  seemed  greater  than  it 
was  a  moment  before. 

"  At  least,"  continued  Mrs.  Trevor,  "  I  should  like  very 
much  to  help  you." 

"  You  are  kind  already,"  answered  the  woman.  "  I 
esteem  you  as  one  of  the  best  of  the  few  friends  I 
have." 

"  What  I  have  done  is  but  small  by  the  side  of  what 
I  wish  to  do.  I  see  that  you  are  struggling  with  more 
than  you  can  ever  hope  to  conquer." 

"  I  sometimes  think  it  is  so  myself,"  said  she. 

"  But  would  you  not,  then,  be  willing  to  part  with 
some  of  your  present  burden?  —  with  the  care  of  one 

"  Give  up  my  children  ? "  interrupted  she,  quickly, 
and  looking  alarmed  at  the  very  approach  of  such  a 
thought. 

"  If  you  knew  they  were  going  to  be  provided  with 
good  homes,"  said  Mrs.  Trevor,  "  where  you  could  your- 
self go  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  They  are  my  only  comfort  now,"  replied  the  womaa 

"  And  the  greatest  cause  of  your  anxiety,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  must  confess  it." 
21* 


246  DOVECOTE. 

"  Then  have  them  placed  where  they  will  have  all 
the  advantages  of  a  home." 

"  Could  you  tell  me  of  such  a  situation  ? "  she  in- 
quired. 

"  Perhaps  so.     What  would  you  do,  if  I  should  ?  " 

"  I  might  think  of  it,  possibly.  I  should  regard  your 
kindness  and  judgment  as  much  almost  as  I  should  my 
own.  But  to  separate  them  !  " 

"  The  world  will  do  that,  by  and  by,  for  you,  when 
you  may  not  have  a  chance  of  a  choice,"  replied  Mrs. 
Trevor. 

No  definite  arrangement  was,  however,  concerted 
then.  The  matter  had  been  broken,  and  that,  to  the 
charitable  feelings  of  Mrs.  Trevor,  was  something 
towards  her  wish. 

Miss  Nancy  went  home  that  day  with  her  friend,  im- 
pressed more  sorrowfully  than  ever  with  the  changes 
that  set  about  us  here  and  there,  like  whirlpools  in  the 
glassy  current  of  a  river. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY. 

IT  was  holiday  with  us  all.  The  school  house  was 
deserted. 

"We  woke  in  the  morning  in  much  higher  spirits  than 
usual,  and  the  first  thing  we  did  was  to  exchange  con- 
gratulations on  the  coming  of  a  whole  play  day. 

As  we  went  down  stairs,  and  trooped  off  over  the  gar- 
den, our  hearts  were  refreshed  with  the  sight  of  the 
dewy  morning  and  the  red-risen  sun.  It  was  a  sum- 
mer morning,  bright  and  beautiful.  The  air  was  bland 
and  fragrant,  and  invigorated  our  lungs  as  we  took  it  in. 
We  wandered  among  the  flowers  and  bushes  until 
breakfast  time,  and  then  went  in  to  fill  out  the  pleasant 
board. 

I  thought  my  grandmother  had  never  greeted  us  all 
with  such  a  pleasant  smile,  taking  us  by  the  hand,  and 
asking  us  how  far  we  had  run.  Her  cap  was  white  and 
smooth,  and  the  little  kerchief  was  crossed  in  that  same 
neat  style  across  her  throat. 

The  breakfast  hour,  too,  seemed  —  as  I  recall  it  now 
—  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  those  that  were  always 
full  of  delight.  We  talked  more  than  was  our  wont, 
our  spirits  towering  as  the  sun  went  up  in  the  sky. 
The  whole  day  was  before  us :  who  so  animated  as 
children  with  such  a  pleasant  prospect  ? 

"  Well,  children,"  said  my  mother,  as  we  began  to 

(247) 


248  DOVECOTE. 

show  signs  of  uneasiness  at  continued  confinement  at 
table,  "  what  is  going  to  be  done  to-day  ? " 

"  We  want  to  go  after  flowers  over  in  the  meadows ! " 
at  once  replied  Alice,  speaking  only  for  the  girls. 

"  And  we  are  going  a-fishing,"  said  two  or  three  of  the 
boys  at  the  same  time. 

My  mother  protested  that  both  these  methods  of  di- 
version would  take  us  all  too  far  from  home ;  and  my 
grandmother  joined  in  with  her,  saying  that  she  feared 
something  would  happen  to  us  if  we  went  so  far  away. 

But  children  have  a  way  of  their  own  of  persisting  in 
their  plans,  especially  if  they  have  the  least  ground  of 
hope  for  success ;  and  we  persisted  that  morning  in 
ours. 

I  laid  my  head  against  my  father's  shoulder,  and  si- 
lently pleaded  for  the  permission  our  side  wanted ;  and 
Carrie  leaned  against  her  mother,  and  told  her  that  the 
meadows,  where  the  buttercups  and  daisies  grew,  were 
but  a  little  way  off,  and  that  she  would  take  care  of 
Nelly  that  no  hurt  should  come  nigh  her. 

We  were,  between  us,  successful  in  our  petitions.  A 
compromise  was  effected,  so  that  we,  whose  pastime 
was  to  be  fishing,  should  see  to  those  whose  employ- 
ment would  be  flower  gathering.  And  thus  the  two 
pleasures  were  made  up,  by  my  mother's  happy  sugges- 
tions, into  one.  And  boys  and  girls  trooped  off  together 
—  the  latter  with  their  light,  baskets  on  their  arms,  and 
the  former  with  fishing  rods  across  their  shoulders. 

As  we  trudged  along,  climbing  the  stiles  and  the 
stone  walls,  and  helping  over  the  little  ones  after  us,  the 
clear  air  of  the  morning  rang  with  the  overflow  of  our 
joy.  We  shouted  at  the  frizzle-fronted  oxen  that  stared 
sullenly  at  us  as  we  passed,  and  set  the  calves  and 


THE    CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY.  249 

lambs  to  frisking  on  the  grass,  and  threw  stones  quite 
out  of  sight  into  the  deep-blue  sky. 

The  girls  chatted  gayly  and  volubly  of  what  they 
were  going  to  do,  of  how  many  flowers  they  were  going 
to  gather,  and  of  what  beautiful  bunches  of  posies  they 
would  make  up  to  give  to  their  mother  and  grand- 
mother ;  and  stooped  down  here  and  there,  as  they 
went  along,  to  pick  up  bits  of  stone  that  glistened  in  the 
sun,  and  throw  them  into  their  baskets. 

We  rigged  our  fisliing  tackle  as  we  went  on,  boasting 
in  advance  of  our  exploits,  and  already  counting  the 
finny  victims  to  our  skill.  One  of  us  said  that  what  fish 
lie  caught  should  be  cooked  in  one  way,  and  another 
stuck  out  as  stoutly  for  another  way  for  his ;  and  so 
we  tramped  over  the  rolling  lands,  and  across  the  plains, 
and  down  through  the  valleys,  till  we  reached  the  fish- 
ing ground  and  the  flower  meads  together. 

The  girls  were  for  a  time  to  take  care  of  themselves, 
we  all  the  while  promising  to  keep  them  in  our  sight. 
They  fell  to  flower  gathering,  therefore,  at  once,  and 
told  us  not  to  wander  too  far  away,  so  that  they  could 
not  hear  us  answer  when  they  called.  We  bound  our- 
selves altogether  by  their  wishes,  and  hurried  to  the 
bank  of  the  little  creek  to  bait  our  hooks,  and  wet  our 
lines,  and  watch  the  bobbing  of  our  floats  as  the  small 
fry  nibbled  at  the  worms,  and  draw  out  the  silly  victims 
on  the  grass. 

The  pleasure  is  a  seductive  one,  even  to  a  right- 
hearted  man.  What,  then,  must  it  not  be  to  a  boy,  his 
heart  fired  with  impulses  and  burning  with  a  constant 
excitement  ? 

As  we  fished,  and  as  luck  gathered  round  our  hooks, 
we  thoughtlessly  strolled  down  the  bank,  separating 
from  each  other,  and  losing  sight  even  of  our  sisters. 


250  DOVECOTE. 

They,  too,  were  quite  as  much  taken  up  as  ourselves, 
and  seemed  to  have  felt  no  degree  of  loneliness  or  fear. 

Each  one  of  us  watched  his  hook.  The  perch  darted 
up  to  it,  took  a  prudent  hold,  and  then  let  it  drop  and 
ran  away  again.  Yellow-bellied  roach  made  for  it  rav- 
enously, and  chewed  and  spit  it  out  very  much  accord- 
ing to  their  varying  taste  and  pleasure.  And  little  min- 
nows played  foolishly  about  it,  occasionally  worrying  off 
a  fragment  of  the  worm,  but  never  managing  to  get  so 
much  as  the  barb  within  their  jaws. 

The  morning  air  was  never  so  delicious,  and  the 
shining  sun  made  the  stream  glisten  like  a  surface  of 
burnished  silver.  And  on  either  side  of  this  grew  brush 
and  brake,  fringing  the  banks  with  a  true  beauty ;  and 
lilypads,  and  coarse,  blue  tulips,  and  long  and  reedy 
rushes. 

In  the  very  music  of  the  little  waves,  as  they  rippled 
and  dashed  along,  —  curling  here  under  an  embankment 
of  sand,  and  rattling  there  over  an  opposing  bar  of 
stones,  —  there  was  something  strangely  charming.  We 
ceased  thinking  of  each  other;  this  lulling  harmony 
drove  all  our  thoughts  inward.  We  had  even  forgot 
our  little  sisters  among  the  violets  and  daisies. 

Presently  Ben  came  running  up  towards  me,  all  out 
of  breath. 

I  at  once  held  up  my  string  of  fish  before  him,  and 
cried,  in  my  joy,  "  See  there  !  see  there  !  " 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  that.  There  was  a  fearful 
cloud  on  his  countenance  that  cast  its  own  dull  shadow 
over  mine.  I  could  not  ask  him  what  was  the  matter ; 
I  only  looked  him  mutely  in  the  face,  and  trembled  at 
the  fear  that  seemed  to  possess  him. 

"  Jimmy !  Jimmy  !  "     This  was  all  he  could  say. 

It  was  enough,  however,  to  set  fire  to  the  train  of  my 


THE    CLOUD    IN    THfi    SKY.  251 

fears,  and  I  looked  down  the  stream  and  over  the 
meadow  to  catch  sight  of  him. 

I  saw  him  nowhere  !  He  was  the  youngest  boy  of 
us,  hardly  turned  of  five,  and  we  loved  him  like  our 
own  hearts. 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  I  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  words  found 
their  way  to  my  lips. 

"  Jimmy  !  Jimmy  !  "  was  all  he  could  utter.  And  he 
started  across  the  meadow,  in  fright,  for  home. 

I  threw  down  my  fishing  rod,  fish  and  all,  upon  the 
grass,  and  set  out  in  a  breathless  run  down  the  bank  of 
the  stream.  To  the  south  it  grew  broader  and  deeper? 
till  it  debouched,  in  the  lower  meadows,  into  a  creek  of 
large  and  fearful  pretensions.  I  flew  to  this  broad 
basin,  and  looked  at  the  sullen  water. 

There  was  a  little  straw  hat  floating  on  the  surface ; 
and  that  was  all ! 

I  ran  up  and  down  the  bank  in  deepest  distress.  I 
could  not  cry  out,  my  emotions  so  stifled  my  utterance. 
I  knew  not  what  I  did,  so  lost  was  I  to  all  thoughts  of 
time  and  place.  And  with  my  own  heart,  too,  palsied 
with  fear,  I  followed  on  after  my  brother  towards  home, 
leaving  the  girls  at  their  flower  gathering,  still,  in  the 
meadow. 

The  sound  of  the  waters  was  in  my  ears  every  rood 
I  ran.  I  heard  them  still  dashing  against  the  stones, 
and  swashing  mournfully  against  the  banks.  They 
seemed,  as  when  Undine  went  down  in  the  deep  Dan- 
ube, to  be  yet  "whispering  and  sobbing"  around  the 
spot  where  little  Jimmy  disappeared,  and  to  say  dis- 
tinctly, still,  "  O,  woe,  woe  !  " 

It  is  all  a  blank.  I  can  remember  nothing.  I  knew 
not,  then,  where  I  threw  my  fishing  rod  and  fish,  or 
even  how  I  reached  home,  or  what  I  said. 


232  DOVECOTE. 

Alarm  seized  every  one.  Every  one  was  in  distress 
and  tears.  There  was  running  to  and  fro,  and  con- 
fusion without  end.  One  hardly  spoke  to  another,  so 
heavily  pressed  down  the  fear  upon  the  hearts  of  all. 
They  ran  to  the  doors,  and  from  the  doors,  and  through 
the  rooms. 

It  was  hardly  yet  noon  when  the  dead  boy  was 
brought  home  and  laid  upon  the  bed.  Well  do  I  re- 
member, now,  how  he  looked,  as  I  stood  at  the  bedside. 
His  eyes  were  shut,  and  his  little  lips  compressed.  One 
of  his  hands  still  remained  tightly  closed,  as  if  he  had 
«lutched  at  some  vain  hope  of  safety.  Over  his  beauti- 
ful forehead  —  now  white  and  cold  —  straggled  his 
tangled  brown  curls,  and  down  about  his  neck,  and 
upon  his  little  linen  collar. 

Dead!  — dead!  — dead! 

There  is  a  little  mound  in  the  village  graveyard,  still 
heaped  as  it  was  heaped  and  rounded  at  his  burial.  A 
thorn  bush  is  growing  near  it. 

I  go  back  often,  now,  to  that  quiet  grave,  and  think 
of  the  weeping  mothers  and  children  that  flocked  about 
it  on  the  sad  afternoon  of  the  funeral.  His  little  hand  is 
still  lying  across  his  breast,  and  the  brown,  silken  curls 
are  combed  back  from  his  full  forehead,  just  as  I  saw 
them  many  and  many  a  year  ago.  Poor  Jimmy !  you 
went  before  us  ;  but  we  are  fast  following  after ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A  TUMBLE  IN  THE  HAY. 

WHAT  pleasure  there  is  in  the  summer  hayfields, 
none  but  they  who  love  to  romp  over  the  sward,  or 
tumble  among  the  tented  haycocks,  or  toss  the  fragrant 
grass  with  the  shining  tines,  can  presume  to  know. 

In  this  world,  there  are  people  who  regale  themselves 
quite  as  much  on  a  distant  contemplation  of  rural  de- 
lights as  they  could  on  the  actual  enjoyment  of  them. 
Such  might  relish  a  faint  fragrance  from  the  new-mown 
hay,  or  a  brief  glimpse  of  a  line  of  rakers  beside  the 
stone  wall,  or  a  sight  of  the  conical  haycocks  dotting 
the  field ;  and  such  may  possibly  find  all  in  this  little 
wisp,  so  hastily  caught  up  behind  the  haymakers. 

Marching  down  through  the  field  in  a  row,  the  mow- 
ers swing  their  hungry  scythes,  bringing  down  long  rows 
of  standing  grass  and  daisies.  Now  and  then  all  stop 
to  whet  the  scythes  with  their  rifles ;  or  to  wipe  the 
perspiration  from  their  imbrowned  faces ;  or  to  drink 
sweetened  water,  seasoned  with  ginger,  from  the  capa- 
cious tin  pail ;  and  then  fall  in  a  line  to  their  work 
again. 

The  swaths  lie  about  them  thickly,  as  on  they  go, 
bringing  down  the  tall  spears  with  a  noise  that  reminds 
fou  of  the  crisp  tearing  of  grass  by  a  grazing  cow  of 
Devon.  There  is  a  faint  ring  in  their  remorseless 
blades  while  yet  they  swing  them  backward  for  the 
next  fatal  sweep.  Here  and  there  they  lay  open  to  the 
22  (253) 


254  DOVECOTE. 

sunlight  the  hidden  nooks  of  birds,  their  fledglings  still 
squatted  in  the  nests,  or  trace  the  burrowings  of  mice 
and  moles,  that  had  never  thought  of  their  retirement 
being  invaded. 

Some  of  the  stalwart  men  sing  as  their  long  scythes 
swing,  making  a  sort  of  rustic  rhyme  to  their  occupa- 
tion. The  sun  climbs  up  in  the  sky  apace,  and  the 
heat  rises  now  over  the  plain.  The  mowers  occasion- 
ally throw  their  eyes  across  the  broad  reach  of  ground 
they  are  to  go  over,  and  some  of  them  already  feel 
oncoming  weariness  ;  yet  they  persistently  bend  to 
their  task,  and  the  serried  ranks  of  daisies  and  grass 
spears  keep  bowing  and  falling  to  the  ground. 

Along  behind  them  come  those  whose  work  it  is  to 
toss  and  scatter  the  grass  for  drying.  The  pitchforks 
twinkle  in  the  long  bunches  of  grass  as  it  is  thrown 
carelessly  about,  and  rakes  describe  endless  circuits  in 
the  air  as  the  swaths  are  some  of  them  stirred  with 
their  handles. 

Boys  come  tossing  about  the  cropped  grass  in  their 
arms,  giving  themselves  up  to  the  momentary  overflow 
of  their  gladness.  They  bury  the  dogs  under  their  bur- 
dens, and  laugh  loudly  to  witness  their  confusion. 

It  is  fresh  and  dewy  when  the  crop  comes  down,  and 
then  it  lies  through  the  heat  of  the  day  deserted  by  all. 
The  field  looks  like  a  desert,  the  sun  beating  down 
mercilessly  on  the  wilted  verdure,  the  daisy  heads  dried 
and  dead,  the  dew  and  the  freshness  all  vanished.  It 
is  pleasant  there  only  as  you  can  find  grateful  shelter 
under  a  spreading  tree,  and  catch  an  occasional  fresh 
breath  that  comes  through  the  green  leaves.  The  hay 
is  making ;  the  grass  is  being  cured.  Nature  is  kindly 
finishing  for  man  what  she  hinted  to  him  first  to  begin. 

When  the  sun  begins  to  go  down  from  the  meridian, 


A    TUMBLE    IN    THE    HAY.  255 

and  the  shadows  begin  to  lengthen,  and  the  sunlight  to 
fall  aslant  on  the  roofs,  the  bams,  and  the  walls,  all 
hands  are  piped  back  to  the  hayfield  again,  to  rake  the 
half-made  hay.  At  this  we  love  to  join. 

Girls,  with  red  cheeks  and  glistening  eyes ;  and  boys, 
whose  skins  are  scarce  yet  beginning  to  wear  a  healthy 
brown ;  old  men,  with  white  heads  and  feeble  limbs ; 
and  children,  just  tottling  across  the  door  yard, — all  start 
off,  in  jcyful  flocks,  to  rake  the  hay. 

The  men  look  up  wisely  at  the  sky,  and  shake  their 
heads  as  if  they  would  mean  much  more  than  they  say, 
and  think  that  it  will  be  apt  to  rain  yet  —  if  the  wind 
and  the  clouds  should  happen  to  come  round  right. 

Before  all  bound  the  delighted  dogs,  barking  at  some- 
thing they  imagine  to  be  wrong,  and  patiently  waiting 
at  the  bars  till  the  haymakers  come  up. 

And  now  all  fall  to  with  a  hearty  good  will,  the  girls 
and  boys  doing  little  else  than  hinder  each  other,  and 
raise  good-humored  laughter  for  their  awkward  work. 
The  children  are  under  every  one's  feet,  and  carried 
along  by  every  one's  rake ;  yet  still  they  pursue  their 
way  among  the  busy  haymakers,  carrying  loose  snarls 
of  the  hay  in  then*  hands,  and  shouting  till  all  is  confu- 
sion. 

The  hay  rustles,  as  it  is  gleaned  from  the  fine  stub- 
ble, like  the  shake  of  maidens'  silken  gowns  ;  and  you 
think  of  such  a  comparison  at  once,  seeing  the  laughing 
girls  frolicking  among  the  windrows. 

It  is  gathered  in  long  lines,  crossing  the  entire  field 
—  these  are  the  windrows ;  and  next  follows  the  rolling 
it  up  in  heaps,  and  trimming  up  the  heaps  until  they 
look  smooth  and  round ;  and  then  rise  the  picturesque- 
looking  haycocks,  scattered  all  over  the  field,  yet  dot- 
ting it  in  only  regular  rows. 


256  DOVECOTE. 

And  such  gay  chattering  when  the  making  up  of 
these  little  ricks  was  well  begun !  and  such  tumbling 
in  the  hay  by  the  younger  ones  !  and  such  fragrance 
every  where  in  the  air  ! 

And  the  sun  shines  now  so  much  more  pleasantly, 
making  the  rounded  haycocks  throw  shadows  at  each 
other ;  and  there  are  such  agreeable  walks,  as  if  they 
were  in  reality  avenues,  between  the  rows  of  stacks ; 
and  girls  look  so  like  the  rustic  divinities  they  are 
sometimes  pictured  in  old  books,  —  it  all  comes  over 
you  delightfully. 

The  whole  plain  seems  a  tented  field ;  but  it  is  not 
a  field  of  arms.  It  exhibits  but  one  of  the  many  quiet 
and  happy  arts  of  peace.  Men  and  women  are  stroll- 
ing here  and  there,  with  long  rakes  across  their  shoul- 
ders and  in  their  hands ;  and  younkers  are  gambolling 
over  the  shorn  grass,  counting  the  rustling  heaps,  and 
playing  at  hide  and  seek  among  them ;  and  dogs  are 
barking  and  racing  withal ;  and  there  is  nothing  to  be 
found  but  health  and  happiness. 

A  frugal  table  is  spread  at  evening,  just  as  the  sum- 
mer-day shadows  are  creeping  in  at  the  doors  and 
through  the  windows.  At  such  a  time  as  this,  it  seems 
the  twilight  of  the  heart,  too.  Dim  and  half-seized 
emotions  steal  over  the  soul,  casting  down  nothing  like 
shadows,  yet  tempering  it  to  a  sweet  and  genial  melan- 
choly. 

O,  how  like  faint  music,  scarce  breathing  itself  on  the 
air,  is  the  thrill  of  the  heartstrings  at  such  a  time  in  the 
"country,  as  they  are  swept  by  unseen  and  unknown 
fingers  !  How  like  soft  and  soothing  murmurs  come  all 
the  earth  influences  to  the  sensitive  soul,  bathed  in  an 
atmosphere  of  revery  and  dreams  ! 

The  haymaking  day  is  over;  and  before  the  red 


A    TUMBLE    IN    THE    HAY.  257 

moon  comes  up  over  the  hills  at  the  east,  every  being 
in  the  household  will  be  lost  in  a  deep  and  sweet 
slumber. 

Of  such  were  the  merry  hay  days  at  Dovecote. 
22* 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

A  WEDDING  IN  THE  PAKLOK. 

IT  was  Mary  that  was  going  to  be  married.  She  was 
the  oldest  of  us  all 

I  shall  not  forget  the  pleasant  confusion  that  turned 
our  childish  hearts  and  thoughts  topsyturvy  while  the 
several  preparations  for  so  remarkable  an  event  were 
going  on.  I  cannot  shut  out  of  my  recollection  the 
continual  bustle  that  reigned  both  within  and  without 
doors,  every  noise  seeming  but  a  sounding  note  of 
preparation. 

The  season  was  autumn  —  exactly  that  dreamy,  gen- 
ial time  when  the  yellow  wasps  were  swarming  under 
the  eaves,  and  bumping  their  foolish  heads  against  the 
windows ;  and  when  the  sunshine  lay  aslant  in  the  old 
garden,  gilding  the  withered  stalks  and  vines,  as  if  to 
make  compensation  for  the  loss  of  their  verdure ;  and 
when  the  early  fires  were  just  beginning  to  be  kindled 
in  the  house,  to  take  away  the  morning  and  evening 
chills. 

There  were  a  few  friends  there,  and  they  were  all 
stowed  into  the  parlor — by  no  means  so  spacious  as  a 
modern  town  parlor,  yet  a  very  neat  little  parlor  in  its 
way.  The  ladies,  some  of  whom,  I  remember,  patron- 
ized me  to  the  extent  of  smoothing  down  my  hair  on 
my  head  as  I  walked  round  the  room,  sat  with  their 
bonnets  on,  whispering  to  each  other,  and  looking 
sharply  around.  I  supposed  at  the  time  they  must  be 

(258) 


A    WEDDING    IN    THE    PARLOR.  259 

both  talking  of  and  looking  at  nothing  but  myself ;  but 
my  observation  since  that  morning  has  done  more  than 
I  should  be  anxious  to  confess  towards  overthrowing 
such  childish  and  innocent  ideas.  It  is  quite  enough 
for  me  to  add  that  the  little  parlor  was  a  room  in  which 
few  of  them  had  been  for  a  long  time,  and  that  there 
had  recently  been  made  notable  improvements  and 
changes  there.  The  ready  tact  of  my  readers  will  at 
once  fill  out  the  hint  to  its  proper  proportions. 

All  the  flowers  that  could  be  gathered  from  far  and 
near  were  impressed  into  the  service  of  the  day.  They 
were  bound  together  in  big  bunches,  and  stood  in  vases 
and  little  pots  upon  the  shelves,  and  in  nosegays,  which 
each  of  us  carried  about  in  our  hands,  making  no  small 
amount  of  flourish  as  we  continually  smelt  of  them. 

There  was  little  else,  however,  that  I  could  hear,  but 
the  rustling  of  dresses,  and  the  low  and  indistinct  tone 
in  which  the  conversation  was  every  where  carried  on. 
Every  thing  seemed  so  solemn,  and  was  done  in  such  a 
solemn  way !  There  was  no  inclination  to  laugh  on 
any  side,  or  even  to  smile.  I  thought  that  the  very 
shining  of  the  sun  grew  at  length  to  be  any  thing  but 
genial. 

My  mother  was  bustling  from  room  to  room ;  and  she 
had  never  appeared  so  excited  to  me  before.  It  was 
the  first  dove  that  had  been  taken  from  the  nest!  I 
know  more  of  what  her  sorrow  and  excitement  meant 
now. 

Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen ;  and  I  felt  that  she 
had  been  weeping  with  Mary.  Indeed,  I  had  myself 
twice  or  thrice  made  unsuccessful  attempts  to  get  into 
the  chamber  where  they  were.  Each  time  they  bade 
me  gently  go  down  until  they  should  come. 

Little  Alice,  now  in  charge  of  Nelly,  was  quite  as 


260  DOVECOTE. 

much  out  of  her  reckoning  as  any  of  us.  She  rolled 
her  eyes  about  upon  the  different  persons  that  passed 
to  and  fro  through  the  dining  room,  as  if  utterly  bewil- 
dered. Some  of  us  stood  bravely  by  her  side,  and  took 
hold  of  her  little  fat  hand,  and  told  her  that  nothing  in 
the  world  should  come  near  her  to  hurt  her ;  and  much 
more  in  the  same  strain. 

My  aunt  was  as  busy  as  one  well  could  be,  making 
abundant  preparations  for  the  marriage  feast  that  was 
to  follow.  She  walked  quite  briskly  about,  and  seemed 
to  take  little  or  no  notice  of  any  of  us. 

My  grandmother  had  charge  of  the  baby,  which  she 
trotted  in  her  lap  and  talked  to  incessantly.  Occasion- 
ally, by  way  of  diversion,  —  whether  for  the  little  one 
or  ourselves  I  know  not,  —  she  would  toss  it  out  into 
our  faces,  and  then  pull  it  as  quickly  back  again.  The 
pet  lamb  seemed  to  like  the  sport  hugely. 

At  length  the  clergyman  came.  I  thought  that  an 
uncommonly  sober  feeling  penetrated  every  one  then. 
He  had  a  pleasant  word  for  his  friends  who  were  seated 
in  the  parlor,  and  finally  found  his  way  out  to  greet  my 
grandparents,  which  he  did  in  the  most  cordial  and 
unaffected  manner  in  the  world.  There  was  some  sil- 
ver cord  that  tied  his  tenderer  feelings  to  the  hearts  of 
those  old  people,  and  I  thought  I  could  detect  it  even 
then. 

He  went  out  upon  the  lawn  just  before  the  house 
with  my  father,  and  there  they  chatted  for  a  long  time. 
They  were  alone,  and  none  of  us  knew  what  their  talk 
was  all  about.  The  good  man,  already  well  along  in 
years,  seemed  so  happy,  standing  there  idly  in  the  sun  ! 
I  knew  he  loved  the  old  place  almost  as  well  as  we  did 
jurselves. 

My  mother  came  down  at  length,  and  Mary  with  her. 


A    WEDDING    IN    THE    PARLOK.  2G1 

The  clergyman,  too,  came  in,  and  went  into  another 
room  and  sat  down  with  them.  No  other  person  was 
admitted  except  the  bridegroom,  who  had  now  been 
some  time  awaiting  the  appearance  of  his  bride.  They 
were  together  there  for  a  long  while.  I  knew  that  the , 
minister  was  giving  them  some  good  advice  ;  for  he  did 
not  fail  to  give  that  to  every  body. 

Presently  my  mother  and  he  came  out  of  the  room 
together.  I  saw  that  my  mother  had  been  weeping 
again ;  and  I  wanted  to  do  nothing  so  much  as  ask  her 
what  was  the  matter.  But  that  was  not  permitted  me. 
There  was  other  and  more  serious  business  going  for- 
ward. 

We  all  started  up  and  followed  the  clergyman  into 
the  parlor,  my  grandmother  bringing  up  the  rear  with 
the  baby.  There  we  ranged  ourselves  about  as  the 
limited  space  best  allowed,  looking  anxiously  at  the 
friends  who  had  assembled  there,  and  anxiously  at  our 
parents  and  each  other.  It  was  a  new  scene  to  us.  It 
was  an  epoch  in  our  lives  to  become  witnesses  to  a  real 
wedding. 

The  talking  fell  at  once  into  whispers,  and  the  whis- 
pers subsided  into  silence ;  and  thus  for  some  time  we 
all  sat  there.  It  was  becoming,  indeed,  painful.  The 
clergyman  sat  waiting  as  patiently  as  the  rest  of  us,  and 
looked  a  little  saddened.  Perhaps  he  did  not  like  the 
thought  of  this  circle's  being  broken  at  all. 

Presently  we  heard  a  rustling  in  the  direction  of  the 
door,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  thither. 

Mary  was  coming  in,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her 
betrothed  husband. 

How  can  I  describe  her?  How  can  I  hurry  along 
my  pen  to  keep  up  with  the  tumultuous  movements  of 
my  feelings  and  my  memory  ? 


2G2  DOVECOTE. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  brown  travelling  habit,  with  a 
tasteful  row  of  buttons  from  her  dimpled  chin  down  to 
her  feet.  Little  muslin  cuffs  were  secured  neatly  about 
her  slender  wrists  ;  and  around  her  white  and  swelling 
throat  she  wore  one  of  the  prettiest  collars  imaginable, 
fastened  just  beneath  her  chin  with  a  knotted  pin  of 
plain,  burning  gold.  Her  dark  hair  was  parted  simply 
across  her  forehead,  looking  glossier  to  me  than  ever 
before.  A  white  rosebud  was  the  only  ornament  my 
eyes  discovered  about  her  head,  got  I  know  not  where 
at  that  season. 

Her  entire  figure  was  creative  of  the  most  agreeable 
feelings,  as  she  stood  there  so  maidenly  and  so  mod- 
estly beside  him  who  was  about  to  become  her  hus- 
band. I  know  not  when  since  then  my  heart  has  been 
wrought  upon  so  pleasurably.  She  was  neither  too 
stout  nor  too  slender,  but  called  up  only  the  idea  of 
gracefulness.  I  well  remember  thinking  that  some 
great  and  sudden  change  must  have  come  over  her, 
such  a  new  mien  had  she  that  morning  put  on. 

The  clergyman  rose  and  advanced  to  where  they 
stood.  First,  he  addressed  them  a  few  solemn  words 
of  advice,  which  I  have  no  fears  of  having  been  lost 
upon  them  ;  then,  with  a  new  emphasis  and  a  changed 
manner,  he  united  their  hands,  and  pronounced  them 
"man  and  wife."  After  this  came  a  fervent  prayer 
from  his  hallowed  lips,  and  after  that  the  confusion  of 
congratulation.  There  seemed  to  be  one  general  time 
of  kissing,  and  laughing,  and  talking,  and  embracing. 
We  children  got  somehow  strangely  tangled  up  in  the 
snarl,  and  found  it  at  times  no  trifling  difficulty  to  work 
our  way  out  clearly  again  to  where  we  could  see  the 
door. 

There  was  a  famous  table  set  for  the  entire  party,  at 


A    WEDDING    IX    THE    PARLOR.  263 

which  every  body  tried  to  be  cheerful,  even  to  my 
mother.  They  told  pleasant  stories,  some  of  them 
highly  appropriate  to  the  time,  and  circled  the  whole 
long  table  round  with  smiles  and  rings  of  laughter. 

But  the  moment  of  separation  came  at  last.  The 
carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  the  trunks  were  lashed  on 
behind.  There  was  a  universal  bidding  farewell,  every 
one  standing  with  tears  in  his  and  her  eyes,  even  to  my 
good  grandmother. 

Mary  kissed  us  all  affectionately,  entered  the  carriage 
with  her  husband,  and  rolled  away  down  the  avenue. 
I  stood  before  the  door  and  watched  them  till  the 
vehicle  disappeared  in  the  winding  of  the  distant  road 
below. 

One  dove  had  flown  out  of  the  nest ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

THANKSGIVING  TIME. 

IT  is  the  time  looked  forward  to  from  the  last  day  of 
summer.  It  always  comes  in  the  fall,  and  the  very  first 
day  of  that  season  ushers  in  early  thoughts  of  it.  The 
yellow  autumn  suns,  shining  so  feebly  against  the  gar- 
den walls,  remind  us  of  it.  The  faded  peach  and  plum 
leaves  keep  hinting  of  its  approach.  The  turning  of  the 
forest  leaves,  as  the  trees  put  on  their  gorgeous  autum- 
nal liveries,  bring  it  almost  to  our  very  doors. 

Blessed,  thrice-blessed  anniversary !  What  other  day 
in  all  the  year  brings  with  it  so  many  joys?  what 
other  day  leaves  so  many  pleasant  remembrances  ? 

The  peculiar  influences  that  surround  the  time  settle 
on  one's  heart  for  many  days  before  the  expected  one 
dawns.  The  notes  of  preparation  are  heard  on  all  sides. 
People  are  driving  over  the  country  to  buy  up  the  yel- 
low-legged fowls  for  the  town  consumption.  Farmers 
trudge  about  to  and  from  market,  in  old-fashioned  wag- 
ons filled  with  prime  poultry,  over  which  are  strewn 
cloths  as  white  as  snow.  Black,  and  brown,  and  yel- 
low legs  stick  out  from  beneath  the  cloths  on  all  sides, 
and  the  boys  look  wistfully  at  them  as  they  pass  along 
through  the  streets. 

Turkeys  go  round  in  flocks,  that  are  now  each  half 
day  decimated  by  the  relentless  axe.  They  strut 
proudly  in  the  sun,  and  gobble  furiously  at  the  ap- 

(964) 


THANKSGIVING    TIME.  265 

proach  of  those  who  come  to  take  yet  another  from 
their  number. 

Geese  are  hissing  lustily  beside  every  pool,  and 
stand  contemplatively  on  one  leg  just  beyond  the  bars 
in  the  pasture.  They  raise  themselves  to  flap  their  long 
wings  as  you  pass  them,  and  run  out  their  red  bills  and 
arching  necks. 

In  the  country  the  preparations  are  altogether  of  a 
domestic  character ;  but  in  the  town  every  thing  is  on 
a  bustling,  commercial  scale.  Yet  there  is  just  enough 
bustle  about  the  barns,  and  the  cribs,  and  the  granaries 
at  home,  and  just  enough  confusion  in  the  kitchens,  to 
give  the  time  an  air  of  real,  downright  business.  It 
makes  children  brisk  and  joyful.  It  imparts  dexterity 
and  speed  to  servants,  and  quickens  the  blood  in  older 
people. 

Where  these  preparations  are  on  a  somewhat  broad 
and  liberal  scale,  as  they  were  wont  to  be  at  Dovecote, 
there  was  business  enough  going  on  for  any  body.  The 
kitchens  were  alive  with  work.  Rows  of  turkeys  and 
chickens  lay  on  the  long  tables,  and  hung  in  clean  places 
against  the  walls.  There  were  baskets  full  of  the  feath- 
ers that  were  plucked  off,  and  wings  were  thrust  in  plen- 
tifully between  the  beams  and  the  wall.  Chicken  feet 
and  turkey  feet  lay  about  the  back  doors,  and  the  fowls 
stared  shyly  at  them  as  they  crept  round  the  yard  for  a 
bite  out  of  season. 

There  were  pies  in  preparation  by  the  score  ;  mince 
pies,  and  apple,  and  cranberry,  and  squash,  and  pump- 
kin ;  and  varieties  of  tarts,  and  sauces,  and  jellies ;  and 
puddings  in  deep,  brown  dishes,  dotted  thickly  with 
plums ;  and  huge  chicken  pies,  filled  with  wings,  and 
side  bones,  and  drumsticks,  and  wrought  fancifully  over 
the  top  with  twisted  crusts.  All  these  crowded  the 
23 


266  DOVECOTE. 

tables  full.  There  was  flour  dust  on  almost  every 
thing ;  especially  when  the  pie  crusts  were  rolling  out, 
and  the  tarts  were  being  made.  And  such  great  pans 
of  milk,  thick  with  standing  cream  !  And  such  huge 
wooden  trays  of  mince  meat,  with  a  long-handled 
wooden  spoon  sticking  up  from  the  middle  of  the  mass ! 

My  aunt  never  pretended  to  bake  less  than  sixty  pies 
of  a  Thanksgiving  time ;  and  I  have  often  seen  an 
exact  hundred  standing  thickly  all  over  the  tables. 

These  were  all  Iwme  preparations.  We  loved  to 
watch  them  going  on,  when  we  came  home  from 
school ;  and  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  Thanks- 
giving, it  was  next  to  an  impossibility  to  get  us,  and 
keep  us,  out  of  the  kitchen.  There  was  every  tiling  there 
for  us  that  was  inspiriting,  and  every  thing  that  was  at- 
tractive. 

In  the  town  markets  it  must  have  been  different. 
There  the  stalls  were  hung  about  with  huge  sides  of 
beef,  rich  and  juicy,  the  rolls  of  tallow  still  clinging  to 
the  curved  ribs.  Turkeys  and  chickens  were  depending 
from  hooks  in  monstrous  bunches,  or  lay  piled  up  in 
great  heaps,  their  black  and  yellow  legs  sticking  out  be- 
yond. There  were  .bunches  of  rare  and  costly  game, 
too,  the  very  mention  of  which  would  moisten  the  mouth 
of  an  epicure.  And  haunches  of  venison ;  and  saddles 
of  choice  muttons  ;  and  whole  hogs,  their  feet  sticking 
stiffly  up,  and  their  bloody  mouths  half  open  ;  and  neck- 
laces of  sausage  links  stringing  from  hook  to  hook ;  and 
piles  of  vegetables  of  all  kinds  to  accompany  the  meats 
when  eaten. 

Into  those  town  markets  strolled  poor  women,  pinched 
with  the  cold,  drawing  their  scanty  shawls  closer  about 
their  shoulders,  and  holding  their  last  piece  of  silver  in 
their  hands  while  they  looked  for  the  largest  possible 


THANKSGIVING    TIME.  267 

investment  about  them.  There  strode  wealthy  men, 
pointing  with  their  canes  to  the  choice  bits  their  eyes 
fell  upon,  inquiring  the  prices,  and  ordering  them  sent 
to  their  steaming  and  well-stocked  kitchens.  There 
moused  about  keepers  of  cheap  boarding  houses,  study- 
ing the  prices  and  qualities  of  meats  fit  for  soups  and 
fit  for  nothing  else,  and  asking  the  price  of  rare  pieces, 
when  they  have  got  their  sharp  eyes  only  on  pieces  that 
everyone  else  would  be  very  apt  to  pass  >>  by.  There 
wandered  children  of  hard  and  relentless  poverty,  treat- 
ing themselves  to  nothing  but  a  look  at  all  these  delica- 
cies, as  if  to  appease  the  craving  calls  of  their  appetites 
in  that  way. 

None  of  this  in  the  country ;  none  of  these  terrible 
contrasts  at  Dovecote  ;  there  was  only  plenty  and  hap- 
piness there. 

When  the  sun  rose  we  were  all  out  of  our  beds.  We 
went  down  to  breakfast  rather  later  than  usual,  and  im- 
mediately afterwards  began  getting  ready  for  meeting. 
There  was  but  one  sermon  that  day,  and  we  invariably 
rilled  the  old  family  pew  with  ready  listeners. 

The  good  minister  had  a  text  from  the  Old  Testa- 
ment somewhere,  and  expatiated  in  exactly  the  same 
strain  from  year  to  year  upon  the  numerous  reasons  we 
all  had  for  thankfulness  to  Heaven  for  our  bounties. 

He  gave  us  striking  passages  from  the  histories  of  the 
patriarchs,  and  never  failed  to  impress  us  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  lives,  and  their  many  sacrifices  to  Heaven 
on  then*  festal  days.  His  voice  sounded  more  hollow 
among  the  seats  of  the  meeting  house,  for  Thanks- 
giving day  never  brought  all  his  flock  about  him  as  did 
Sunday. 

After  the  services  he  came  round  and  shook  hands 
with  my  parents  and  grandparents,  laying  his  hand  on 


268  DOVECOTE. 

the  head  of  some  one  of  us  children,  and  talking  the 
while.  He  always  got  an  urgent  invitation  to  Dovecote 
for  the  evening,  and  to  his  credit  be  it  said  that  he  very 
rarely  slighted  it  When  he  sat  with  us  about  the  great 
fire,  after  the  day  was  over,  he  mingled  in  our  childish 
sports,  and  even  unbent  himself  so  far  as  to  tell  a  story 
occasionally  with  the  rest. 

What  a  great  show  the  well-laid  dinner  table  made  ! 
and  what  a  much  greater  substance  was  there  to  it  all ! 

Every  place  was  filled ;  every  plate  was  taken.  An 
uncle  came  home  with  his  wife  and  a  baby  or  two,  and  an 
aunt  came  home  with  her  husband  and  the  same  at- 
tachments ;  and  sometimes  friends  from  distant  places 
came  in  obedience  to  special  invitations,  making  a  house 
full  of  us.  I  had  an  uncle  that  used  to  drop  in  on  us 
at  this  time,  who  had  travelled  somewhat,  and  told  tales 
of  the  countries  he  had  seen,  and  their  people.  We 
counted  much  on  his  accession  to  our  circle. 

As  we  sat  round  the  table,  we  made  a  picture  rarely 
seen  nowadays.  Tongues  were  going  every  where 
confusedly ;  faces  were  lit  up  with  smiles ;  pleasant 
things  were  said  of  one  another ;  and  a  genial  humor 
ruled  the  whole. 

The  turkey  usually  filled  us  to  satisfaction.  We 
were  injudicious  then,  and  knew  nothing  of  that  art  of 
eating  which  we  are  very  apt  to  learn  afterwards ;  so 
that  when  the  pies  were  cut  up  and  handed  about,  a 
half  dozen  different  kinds  on  each  plate,  we  could  do 
little  else  than  sigh  to  think  we  could  hold  no  more. 
Even  before  we  came  to  the  puddings  we  were  full. 

They  sat  long  and  late  at  table,  chatting  of  the 
events  of  the  year,  the  health  of  friends,  and  the  well 
being  of  the  different  branches  of  the  family.  There 
was  that  sense  of  sufficiency  —  a  very  satisfactory  feel- 


THANKSGIVING    TIME.  269 

ing  —  in  the  stomachs  of  all,  that  they  talked  as  if  con- 
tented, not  only  with  themselves,  but  with  all  the  world 
beside. 

As  the  shadows  began  to  gather  about  the  roofs  of 
the  old  mansion,  we  began  to  gather  about  the  hearth. 
Old  and  young  were  there  pleasantly  mingled  together 
—  locks  of  raven  and  locks  whiter  than  snow.  Infants 
played  with  each  other's  eyes  from  their  mothers'  laps, 
crowing  and  jumping  in  their  delight.  My  grandparents 
drifted  into  their  old  corner,  and  sat  side  by  side  there 
through  the  evening. 

And  as  the  firelight  played  over  our  faces,  and  while 
we  all  sat  ranged  about  the  hearth,  the  old  tales  were 
dragged  out  from  the  rubbish  of  memory.  A  chair  was 
left  vacant  for  the  minister;  and  he  came  in  and  sat 
down  in  it  as  quietly  as  if  he  were  a  member  of  the 
household  I  knew  he  loved  so  well.  And  he  had  his 
story,  too. 

I  could  perpetuate  this  Thanksgiving  time  no  better 

than  by  telling  over  again  the  tales  that  I  heard  at  the 

gleaming  hearth.     If  they  could  but  bring  back  the  old 

circle  of  loved  faces  again !  —  but  it  is  hoping  too  much. 

23* 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

THE  MAGDALEN. 

THICK  and  fast  the  snows  were  blowing,  driving 
with  their  chilly  tinkle  against  the  window  panes,  and 
whitening  the  yard  and  the  lawn  with  their  drapery 

Down  the  great  chimney  the  fierce  wind  roared,  as 
if  it  would  warm  itself  at  the  fire.  The  smoke,  ever 
and  anon,  puffed  out  in  eddying  gusts  into  the  room, 
making  us  retreat  before  it  in  confusion. 

It  was  such  a  night  as  makes  one  feel  glad  that  he 
has  a  home.  It  was  a  night  houseless  and  hungry 
wanderers  might  well  pray  to  be  delivered  from,  as 
from  a  sure  and  terrible  death. 

The  moans  of  the  cutting  winds,  as  there  would  be 
comparative  lulls  in  the  tempest,  could  be  distinctly 
heard  among  the  creaking  boughs  of  the  old  elms,  so 
that  it  might  be  imagined  they  were  haunted  with  dark 
spirits,  like  ghouls. 

The  room  in  which  we  all  sat  was  well  lighted,  as  if 
the  storm  would  not  be  so  apt  to  reach  us.  It  had  the 
effect,  however,  to  make  us  feel  its  terrors  the  more 
deeply.  And  the  kitchen  hearth  was  blazing  with 
good,  clean  hickory,  around  which  sprigs  and  sprays 
of  brushwood  were  firing  up  in  all  manner  of  pyro- 
technic wreaths  The  servants  were  seated  in  a  row 
about  the  spacious  hearthstone,  laughing,  and  telling 
over  musty  old  stories,  and  gazing  silently  into  the  bril- 
liant fire. 

(370) 


THE    MAGDALEN.  271 

It  was  a  picture  of  perfect  contentment. 

"  It's  a  hard  night  for  travellers,"  suggested  my  grand- 
father, taking  an  imaginary  hitch  in  his  chair  nearer  the 
fire. 

He  turned  round  and  looked  my  grandmother  fixedly 
in  the  face,  as  if  awaiting  her  reply. 

"  I  pity  them  without  homes  to-night!"  said  my  grand- 
mother, letting  a  stitch  drop  in  her  knitting  as  she  spoke, 
and  bending  down  to  recover  it  again. 

The  storm  drove  surgingly  at  the  doors  and  windows 
of  the  mansion.  The  wind  went  howling  round  the 
casements,  seizing  hold  of  the  shutters  and  shaking 
them  as  if  it  would  wrench  them  from  their  fastenings. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  lurid  clouds  that 
night ;  and  I  thought,  as  we  all  trudged  home  from  school 
over  the  frozen  hobbles,  that  those  clouds  looked  omi- 
nous of  a  storm.  A  long,  narrow  strip  of  dull  red  lay 
along  the  horizon,  a  premonition  —  as  the  weather-wise 
servants  had  taught  us — of  a  tempest  and  increased  cold 
after.  Sure  enough!  evening  had  hardly  shut  down 
upon  us  with  its  dense  darkness,  not  a  star  twinkling 
through  the  unfathomable  gloom,  when  we  heard  the 
furious  spitting  of  the  snow  upon  the  windows. 

At  first  it  came  by  littles  and  at  brief  intervals.  Then, 
as  a  fresh  puff  of  the  raw  wind  blew  it  with  its  breath, 
it  drove  oif  in  a  steady  torrent  against  the  panes.  And 
now  came  the  roaring  of  the  mad  winds  themselves  — 
blowing  across  distant  meadows,  all  of  snow  crust — 
down  through  bare  and  shivering  belts  of  wood  —  over 
dismal  fens  and  stiffened  marshes  — past  lone  and  drea- 
ry cottages,  where  the  light  of  lamps  beat  feebly  against 
the  wall  of  darkness  without— and  about  the  old  elms 
on  our  lawn— around  the  clustered  chimney  stacks  — 
over  and  over  the  roofs  —  and  then  away  upon  the  far- 
off  fields  and  wastes  again. 


272  DOVECOTE. 

All  the  time  the  snow  kept  piling  thicker  and  higher. 
There  was  no  spot  left  uncovered.  The  bare  places 
were  no  longer  to  be  seen. 

We  knew  that  when  we  came  down  to  breakfast  in 
the  morning  every  place  out  of  doors  would  be  banked 
up  with  the  deep  drifts ;  and  our  children's  hearts  felt 
willing  to  wait  through  the  long  and  silent  night  watches, 
if  we  could  but  see  the  new  winter  sights  in  the  morn- 
ing. A  snow  landscape  was  pictured  in  our  eyes  al- 
ready. 

"  Pity  the  poor  such  a  night  as  this ! "  again  exclaimed 
my  grandfather,  speaking  in  a  low  tone  as  to  himself. 

"  There's  none  too  much  of  it  in  the  world  for  them,  I 
fear !"  returned  my  grandmother,  glancing  at  the  young- 
er ones  to  see  that  her  remark  took  proper  effect. 

"  No,  no ;  that  there  isn't ! "  said  my  grandfather. 

A  fresh  gust  blew  down  the  chimney,  scattering  the 
white  ashes  all  about  the  hearth. 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  my  grandfather,  taking  down 
his  feet  quickly  from  the  great  brass  fender. 

"  For"  mercy's  sake,  mistress !  For  mercy's  sake ! " 
screamed  a  voice  at  the  kitchen  door. 

The  door  opened  simultaneously  with  the  voice,  and 
the  maid  stood  before  us  all,  her  eyes  distended,  her 
face  livid  with  fear,  and  her  attitude  that  of  wild  de- 
spair. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  cried  at  least  a  half  dozen 
voices  at  once. 

"  There  is  a  woman  at  the  door  —  I  can't  tell — I  never 
saw  the  sight  before — Fm  so  frightened !"  was  all  the 
explanation  that  could  be  got  out  of  the  superstitious 
girl. 

My  mother  started  to  go  to  the  kitchen  herself. 

At  exactly  the  same  moment,  two  of  the  men  servants 


THE    MAGDALEN.  273 

came  slowly  walking  in  at  the  door,  supporting  by  either 
arm  the  feeble  steps  of  a  woman. 

"  O,  for  the  love  of  God,  have  pity !  Do  but  have 
pity ! "  spake  as  sweet  a  voice  as  ever  filled  my  memory 
with  its  silvery  echoes ;  and  the  form  of  the  woman 
sank  down  instantly  between  the  men  to  the  floor. 

"Poor  thing!"  said  my  grandmother,  pity  gushing 
from  her  heart,  as  she  stepped  forward  towards  the  ob- 
ject of  her  commiseration. 

"  Carry  her  into  the  bed  room,  and  lay  her  on  my  bed ! " 
called  my  grandfather,  rising  in  high  excitement  from 
his  chair. 

"  See !  see !"  exclaimed  my  mother,  releasing  a  bundle 
from  the  firm  and  affectionate  grasp  of  the  poor  woman, 
and  discovering  to  us  all  the  face  of  a  sleeping  babe. 

"  O,  poor,  poor  thing ! "  said  my  grandmother,  ten- 
derly. 

By  this  time  the  doorway  was  crowded  with  the 
anxious  domestics,  wondering  whence  such  a  strange 
apparition  could  come,  and  what  might  be  her  destina- 
tion. 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  fearfully  pale  face.  It 
will  haunt  my  memory  till  my  dying  day. 

The  lips  were  partly  opened,  and  perfectly  livid. 
There  was  a  look  of  exhaustion  in  her  countenance 
that  no  words  could  one  half  so  well  have  conveyed. 
It  was  terrible,  the  sight  of  it. 

"  Carry  her  into  the  bed  room,"  said  my  mother,  open- 
ing the  door  for  them,  while  she  herself  held  the  infant 
in  her  arms. 

They  laid  her  on  the  little  low  bed  of  my  grandparents, 
they  themselves  coming  in  to  offer  her  all  the  sympathy 
in  their  reach.  Every  thing  was  in  sudden  confusion. 
The  children  were  in  a  strange  hubbub,  saying  nothing, 


274  DOVECOTE. 

to  be  sure,  yet  betraying,  by  their  anxious  looks  and  quiv- 
ering lips,  the  depth  of  the  feelings  that  stirred  them. 
There  was  a  great  running  for  warm  water,  and  hot 
bricks,  and  cordials,  and  bandages  of  flannels ;  and  there 
was  likewise  a  deal  of  talking,  among  the  children  and 
between  the  servants,  in  low  tones  and  in  whispers; 
and  all  seemed  chiefly  anxious  to  be  of  some  service 
when  they  could  be  of  none  whatever. 

By  and  by  the  stranger  revived.  A  warm  room  had 
been  prepared  for  her  above  stairs,  and  a  fire  was 
already  cheerfully  flaming  on  the  hearth.  Without  ask- 
ing her  a  question,  my  mother  had  her  at  once  removed 
to  the  snug  little  chamber,  and  herself  followed  anxious- 
ly along,  holding  the  infant  the  while  tenderly  in  her 
arms. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  that  poor  stranger 
woman,  as  she  was  supported  out  of  the  little  bed  room 
again  to  the  chamber.  She  seemed  unable  still  to 
speak,  from  the  sheer  exhaustion  caused  by  her  expo- 
sure. Her  thin  lips  parted,  as  if  she  would  utter  what 
weighed  on  her  heart  so  heavily.  The  large,  saddened 
eyes  of  blue  were  widely  open,  but  how  depressed  and 
languid !  I  could  not  fathom  their  strange  expression, 
so  much  was  I  startled  with  it. 

Her  straggling  hair,  released  from  its  confinement, 
had  fallen  down  upon  her  forehead  and  over  her  face ; 
and  upon  her  cheeks  the  snow  and  sleet  seemed  to 
have  matted  it  down.  They  had  opened  her  dress,  too,  at 
the  throat,  revealing  a  skin  of  remarkable  softness  and 
transparency. 

I  could  not  help  wondering  what  should  have  brought 
so  delicate  a  creature  to  our  door  on  such  a  night  as 
that.  The  very  thought  of  her  exposure  to  the  storm 
sent  a  shudder  over  my  frame  and  a  chill  to  my  bones. 


THE  MAGDALEN. 


275 


I  saw  no  more  of  her  again  that  night  We  imme- 
diately took  leave  of  our  grandparents  at  the  fireside, 
and  went  off  to  bed  to  dream  of  the  wanderings  of  the 
houseless  and  the  wretched.  What  knew  we  —  favored 
as  we  were  —  of  the  biting  frosts  of  want,  and  disease, 
and  neglect?  How  could  hearts  like  ours  —  unruffled 
by  any  other  tempests  than  the  little  jealousies  of  our 
play  —  be  expected  to  take  in  the  breadth  and  the 
depth  of  human  suffering  ? 

It  had  all  been  a  fable  to  us  till  now.  We  had  read 
somewhat  of  it  in  story  books,  to  be  sure  ;  and  had  lis- 
tened to  tales  of  very  poor  people,  who  were  obliged  to 
beg  their  precarious  subsistence  from  door  to  door ;  but 
here  was  a  living  example  of  it  all.  Here  was  a  tender 
wanderer,  taken  into  shelter  from  the  bitter  buffetings 
of  the  winter  storm,  out  of  the^itiless  darkness,  out  of 
the  very  winding  sheets  the  snow  had  been  busily 
weaving  for  her  last  shroud  ! 

All  this  came  home  to  us  now.  We  felt  it  as  nothing 
else  could  be  felt,  short  of  suffering  ourselves.  We  saw 
the  worn-down  sufferer,  —  the  pinched  and  pallid  fea- 
tures,—  the  dying  blue  eyes,  —  the  slender  form,  too 
weak,  now,  to  support  itself  alone  ;  and  at  such  a  sight 
our  hearts  bled.  It  was  our  first  contact  with  the 
monster,  Want,  and  formed  a  great  event  in  our  lives. 

The  next  morning,  when  we  came  down,  the  earth 
was  a  sheet  of  snow.  Deep  drifts  and  banks  were  piled 
every  where  about  the  house ;  and  the  trees,  just  sway- 
ing with  the  wind  that  had  not  yet  all  died  away,  were 
thickly  incrusted.  Some  of  the  limbs  were  ice-mailed 
and  panoplied  all  over ;  and  the  huge  trunks,  where  the 
winds  had  beat  steadily  against  them  through  the  storm, 
presented  long  strips  of  ice  and  snow  to  the  newly- 


276  DOVECOTE. 

Our  first  thought  was  of  the  wanderer  we  had  the 
night  before  taken  in.  I  wondered  what  would  have 
become  of  her  if  she  had  not  found  shelter  as  she  did. 

She  was  too  much  exhausted  to  think  of  leaving  her 
chamber  at  all ;  and  my  mother  saw  that  she  wanted 
nothing  where  she  was.  She  was  determined  she 
should  not,  at  least,  lack  for  comforts. 

A  cheerful  fire  was  kept  constantly  burning  for  her 
on  the  chamber  hearth,  and  my  grandmother  sat  for 
hours  together  by  her  bedside. 

The  little  infant  had  been  shown  us  once  or  twice ; 
but  the  mother  faintly  protested,  as  my  grandmother 
afterwards  told  us.  She  was  very  weak  yet  with  her 
sufferings,  and  said  but  little.  She  tried  to  speak 
her  thanks,  however,  for  the  kindness  done  her;  but 
her  syllables  died  away  in  whispers  on  her  pale  lips, 
and  with  her  blue  eyes  alone  she  expressed  what  she 
could  not  find  words  to  utter  with  her  tongue. 

No  questions  were  asked  her  of  the  manner  in  which 
she  had  come  to  her  present  need.  Nothing  was  said 
to  wound  the  tender  heart  that  beat  now  so  feebly  in 
her  bosom.  My  mother  knew  that,  when  the  proper 
time  should  come,  all  would  be  made  plain.  In  the 
mean  while,  she  had  nothing  to  think  of  but  how  best  to 
secure  the  comfort  of  the  unexpected  guest 

We  sat  often  together  in  the  kitchen  chimney  corner, 
—  the  younger  part  of  the  household,  —  talking  in  low 
voices  of  this  strangest  of  all  events  ;  wondering  where 
the  poor  girl's  friends  could  be,  or  even  if  she  had  any ; 
expressing  such  free  and  undivided  sympathy  for  her  in 
her  suffering  as  children  ever  have  ready  for  sights  of 
woe ;  and  hoping,  for  her  own  sake  at  least,  that  her 
friends  might  corne  soon  and  take  her  back  to  them- 
selves, where  she  should  be  happy  again. 


THE    MAGDALEN.  277 

But  there  were  the  suspicious  servants,  ready  to  taint 
the  freshness  of  our  young  hearts  with  their  sinister 
looks,  and  the  forbidding  wags  of  their  heads,  and  their 
dark  hints,  half  expressed  in  whispers. 

"  She  was  no  better  than  she  should  be  !  " 

How  my  blood  heated  with  the  wicked  suspicion ! 
How  I  longed  for  the  coming  of  the  day  when  I  could 
resent  such  cruel  taunts  in  other  ways  than  with  my 
looks ! 

Poor  wanderer  !  We  daily  listened,  as  we  sat  about 
the  fire,  to  the  little  tender  stories  my  mother  dropped 
into  our  hearts  about  her ;  of  how  very  patient  she  was 
in  her  suffering,  never  murmuring  or  repining ;  of  how 
fervently  she  loved  her  little  babe,  talking  to  it  in  the 
tenderest  voice,  and  pressing  it  passionately  to  her 
aching  breast ;  of  how  she  let  fall  brief  hints  of  her 
friends,  and,  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  seemed  to 
beg,  by  the  prayerful  looks  of  her  eyes,  that  nothing  of 
it  might  be  told  again. 

She  became  a  mystery  to  us  at  the  time,  I  know ; 
but  it  is  no  mystery  now.  The  world  is  full  of  just  such 
woes.  It  is  darkened  with  ten  thousand  thousand  just 
such  wrongs.  It  is  made  sad  with  many  and  many  a 
low  wail  from  just  such  pallid  lips  and  just  such  break- 
ing hearts. 

The  weeks  wore  away,  and  the  months  began  to 
melt  from  the  calendar.  The  winter  was  rough  and 
rugged,  purpling  our  cheeks,  and  biting  our  ears  and 
fingers,  as  it  has  done  many  a  time  since.  The  storm 
banks  in  the  skies  gave  up  their  dreary  loads,  and  the 
earth  grew  alternately  white,  and  flecked,  and  brown. 

At  length  came  the  spring  rains,  searching  and 
driving  their  drizzling  floods  every  where.  They  beat 
steadily  upon  the  meadows  and  the  hillsides,  till  it 
24 


278  DOVECOTE. 

seemed  as  if  the  soaked  ground  could  hold  no  more. 
The  frosts  thawed  out,  and  the  smokes  steamed  up 
from  the  plains. 

And  then  came  the  smiling  and  rosy-lipped  spring 
itself,  with  its  freshly-sprouted  grass  blades,  and  its 
newly-clothed  trees.  Dainty  green  blades  pricked 
through  the  softening  mould,  all  along  under  the  old 
brown  walls,  and  down  through  the  long  lanes,  and 
where  strips  of  sunshine  nestled  warmest  in  every  cosy 
nook  and  corner.  The  buds  of  the  soft  maples  donned 
their  scarlet  jackets,  fringed  about  all  so  tastefully ;  and 
the  willow  buds  by  the  gurgling  brooks  put  on  their 
woolly  caps  of  white ;  and  the  brilliant  ladysmocks 
glistened  in  the  lowlands,  where  the  brooks  threaded 
their  way  through  the  growing  green. 

The  poor  woman  had  not  yet  left  her  chamber.  The 
little  infant,  however,  waxed  strong ;  but  the  mother's 
life  seemed  slowly  waning.  There  could  be  but  few 
more  days  left  for  her  here. 

The  village  doctor  had  been  called  in,  and  his  skill 
had  done  for  her  what  it  could ;  but  the  little  all  of  that 
was  not  enough.  The  blue  of  her  large  eyes  was 
slowly  retreating,  as  if  backward  to  the  depths  of  the 
heaven  whence  it  came.  The  color  had  died  from  her 
sunken  cheeks  and  from  her  thin  lips.  Only  that 
sweet,  resigned,  angelic  expression  remained. 

The  minister  came  in  to  see  her,  and  sat  by  her  bed- 
side, talking  slowly  and  solemnly.  But  she  gave  up  no 
secret  to  him.  Her  bleeding  heart  fluttered  in  her 
breast  like  a  wounded  bird ;  but  not  for  such  sympathy, 
then,  as  his. 

He  might  offer  consolation ;  he  might  freely  spread 
out  the  blessed  promises  ;  he  might  be  instrumental  in 
breaking  the  glebe  that  had  been  softened,  but  never 


THE    MAGDALEN.  279 

yet  broken ;  but  he  had  not  power  to  make  that  heart 
give  up  its  troublesome  secret.  Or,  if  he  had  the  pow- 
er, he  had  not  the  skill  to  do  it. 

He  prayed  with  her.  I  well  remember  his  earnest 
tones  in  the  little  chamber,  as  we  one  day  came  home 
from  school.  They  drew  me  strangely  to  the  spot. 

The  poor  creature  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  must  break. 
She  said  nothing,  however.  Only  those  deep,  agonizing 
sobs  betrayed  her  emotion.  Her  thin  and  white  hands 
lay,  like  faded  shadows,  over  the  counterpane ;  and  ever 
and  anon  she  would  half  lift  them  before  her,  as  if  in 
silent  supplication. 

Had  she  a  mother?  I  asked  myself.  Had  she  not 
friends  ?  Was  she  cast  out  thus  to  die  alone,  without 
that  last  boon  so  earnestly  sought,  the  tenderly-given 
blessing  of  her  who  bore  her  ? 

She  told  them  that  night  —  the  same  night  on  which 
the  minister  came  —  to  leave  her  alone.  My  mother 
had  received  the  whole  of  her  story,  now,  from  her  lips, 
promising  to  keep  it  faithfully  till  the  change  came, 
whether  for  the  worse  or  the  better. 

It  was  the  old  story  over  again  of 

"  One  more  unfortunate  !  " 

Towards  morning  only  was  she  left  alone,  as  she  had 
desired.  She  wished  to  have  her  own  thoughts  undis- 
turbed, and  to  get  sleep,  if  she  could. 

And  the  soft  beating  of  her  own  bruised  heart  against 
one  other  fresh  and  tender  heart  was  all,  save  the  occa- 
sional deep  breathing,  that  was  to  be  heard  in  the  apart- 
ment. 

The  morning  was  a  fresh  gift  from  God.  Never 
dawned  spring  day  more  gloriously. 

They  had  opened  many  of  the  windows  of  the  old 


280  DOVECOTE. 

house,  to  let  in  the  new  sun  and  the  early  morning 
sounds.  The  birds  were  twittering  in  the  garden  trees 
and  in  the  old  elms,  and  the  swallows  were  swarming 
with  their  shrill  cry  beneath  the  barn  eaves.  Fresh 
winds  drew  into  the  rooms,  loaded  with  the  sweet  fra- 
grance. 

My  mother  went  softly  to  the  sick  woman's  chamber, 
and  cautiously  opened  the  door,  fearing  to  waken  her. 

She  looked  towards  the  bed,  and  a  sudden  chill  froze 
her  blood. 

There  lay  the  wearied  body ;  but  the  heart  had  done 
counting  the  ebbing  pulses  of  her  life  ! 

The  babe's  fat  little  hand  rested  against  its  mother's 
cold  cheek,  as  if  to  waken  her  to  behold  the  morning. 

But  the  poor  mother  had  waked  that  morning  in 
another  world ! 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  LITTLE  STRANGER. 

THERE  are  events  in  the  lives  of  children,  no  less  than 
in  those  of  men,  that  change  the  whole  current  of  their 
feelings.  The  stream  takes  a  sudden  turn,  and  sweeps 
away  through  pleasant  lands  of  which  the  heart  could 
have  had  no  thought  before. 

It  was  much  later  than  usual  when  we  got  home  from 
school  one  afternoon,  and  I  recollect  that  when  I  opened 
the  door  only  my  grandfather  sat  in  the  corner  by  the 
fire.  The  winter  was  far  spent,  and  the  old  spring  rud- 
diness was  slowly  mantling  his  shrivelled  cheeks  again. 

Just  as  soon  as  I  had  answered  to  his  customary  salu- 
tation — for  he  always  had  a  mellow  word  or  two  for  each 
one  of  us  on  our  return  from  school  —  my  grandmother 
came  softly  tripping  through  the  opposite  door,  and  took 
the  old  accustomed  seat  beside  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something,  my  child,"  said 
she,  extending  her  hand  towards  me. 

I  looked  up  into  the  faces  of  both  my  grandparents, 
half  expecting  to  read  the  wonderful  intelligence  in 
their  eyes.  I  noticed  that  my  grandfather's  were  twin- 
kling very  pleasantly  upon  me,  and  that  my  grandmother 
half  averted  hers ;  still,  she  wore  a  very  contagious  smile 
about  her  mouth.  Something  was  coming ;  that  I  knew. 
What  could  it  be  ? 

She  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  drew  me  gently  to  her 
side.  The  old  man  looked  continually  at  me,  as  if  he 
24  *  (28i) 


202  DOVECOTE. 

were  delighted  at  beholding  the  effect  of  my  grand- 
mother's very  skilful  tactics.  For  myself,  I  remember 
only  that  I  was  lost  in  wonder. 

The  gentle  old  lady  leaned  her  head  down,  still  keep- 
ing hold  of  my  arm,  and  whispered  in  my  ear, — 

"  You've  got  another  little  sister ! "  said  she ;  and  im- 
mediately lifted  her  face  to  that  of  my  grandfather. 
They  exchanged  very  knowing  looks ;  and  I  remember 
that  my  grandfather  was  so  highly  pleased,  I  knew  not 
then  with  what,  that  a  genial  smile  broke  out  all  over 
his  benignant  face. 

I  was  plunged  into  a  deeper  perplexity  than  ever. 

The  two  old  folks  had  something  to  say  for  a  minute 
or  two  in  a  whisper ;  and  then  my  grandmother,  whose 
hold  on  my  arm  had  now  relaxed,  took  me  by  the  hand 
again,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  be  sure  and  keep  very 
still,  and  make  not  the  least  bit  of  noise. 

Certainly  I  would.  That  was  a  thing  very  easily 
done,  when  by  the  means  one's  curiosity  was  in  the 
way  of  being  gratified. 

She  thereupon  rose  from  her  chair,  and  led  me  out  of 
the  room  with  her. 

I  next  found  myself  in  a  darkened  chamber,  a  cheer- 
ful fire  blazing  on  the  hearth,  and  my  good  aunt  sitting 
in  a  chair  near  the  bedside.  The  curtains  were  down 
at  the  windows,  and  voluminous  curtains  let  fall  their 
ample  folds  on  either  side  of  the  old-fashioned  bedstead. 
My  grandmother  led  me  to  the  hearth,  and  made  me  sit 
down ;  not  yet,  however,  speaking  a  word.  Then  she 
stepped  over  to  my  aunt,  and  exchanged  a  few  words 
with  her  in  whispers  that  I  could  not  hear.  There  was 
an  ominous  sound  in  the  whispers,  scarce  breaking 
through  the  silence  of  that  sombre-looking  chamber. 

My  eyes  were  plunged  thoughtfully  in  the  glowing  fire. 


A    LITTLE    STRANGER.  283 

At  length,  as  I  looked  up,  I  saw  my  aunt  standing  be- 
side me,  holding  what  then  seemed  a  little  bundle  of 
white  muslin  in  both  her  hands ;  and  my  grandmother 
looking  complacently  over  her  shoulder,  first  at  the  care- 
fully-held bundle,  and  then  at  me. 

My  senses,  somehow,  came  to  me  sufficiently  to  sug- 
gest the  need  of  rising  to  my  feet,  if  I  would  see  the 
wonder  that  my  aunt  held  out  so  patiently  for  my  in- 
spection. 

There  it  was,  sure  enough  !  How  oddly  it  all  came 
over  me  !  The  world  seemed  suddenly  enlarged,  so 
that  my  heart,  on  the  moment,  took  in  more  than  it  had 
ever  done  before. 

I  gazed,  with  emotions  I  have  no  more  words  for  now 
than  I  had  then,  at  the  little  expressionless  face  that 
lay  before  me.  The  eyes  were  shut.  The  features 
were  almost  too  diminutive  to  be  recognizable.  It 
looked  like  nothing  I  had  ever  seen  before,  and  like 
nothing  I  thought  I  should  ever  see  again. 

My  aunt  and  my  grandmother  exchanged  quick 
glances  —  very  expressive  glances,  too.  My  grand- 
mother's face  betrayed  the  deep  delight  of  her  heart. 
She  could  not  have  kept  it  back  if  she  would. 

We  all  had  a  merry  time  of  it  over  "  the  baby "  so 
soon  as  our  astonishment  had  a  little  abated ;  and  he 
had,  for  the  moment,  quite  a  flowing  feather  stuck  in 
his  cap,  who  was  allowed  the  indescribable  privilege  of 
holding  the  nursling  in  his  own  arms.  But  even  on  the 
occasion  of  such  experiments,  my  aunt  —  kind  and 
thoughtful  soul!  —  held  out  her  hands  beneath  the 
precious  load,  that  there  might  be  no  room  at  all  for  an 
accident. 

There  was  another  added  to  our  unbroken  number. 
Nine,  now,  in  all !  We  felt  as  if  we  must  move  back  a 


284  DOVECOTE. 

little,  to  widen  the  circle,  and  let  the  little  stranger  in. 
We  looked  more  thoughtfully  at  one  another,  as  if  we 
were  impatient  to  know  of  what  exact  nature  the  bud 
was  that  had  just  been  ingrafted  on  the  family  tree. 
There  was  a  secret  reaching  out  of  sympathies  on  all 
sides  —  an  intense  yearning  towards  the  new  comer. 
Our  hearts  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to  begin  to  grow 
into  this  other  and  fresher  heart.  We  all  wanted  to  be- 
gin the  making  our  marks  upon  the  white  sheet,  where- 
on was  not  yet  a  single  scrawl. 

Those  were  famous  days,  as  the  baby  began  to  grow 
bigger,  and  as  we  disputed  for  precedence  in  holding  it 
so  awkwardly  in  our  laps.  The  old  rooms  of  Dovecote 
never  were  so  full  of  echoes  as  when  we  shouted  at  the 
wonderful  progress  our  baby  made ;  while  we  sagely 
questioned  if  ever  baby  got  on  so  fast  before.  There 
was  nothing  we  were  unwilling  to  do  for  the  little  one. 
There  was  scarce  any  thing  we  could  not  do  for  her. 
The  pet  lamb  of  the  whole  flock,  she  kept  the  foun- 
tains of  our  hearts  all  the  time  full  and  flowing. 

There  is  no  better  loadstone  in  the  home  circle  than 
this.  All  the  petty  jealousies  are  drowned  out  in  the 
flood  of  the  common  joy.  All  the  trifling  complaints  die 
for  the  want  of  food  to  nourish  them.  All  the  little 
bickerings  are  forgotten,  as  every  heart  moves  silently 
and  unbidden  to  this  common  centre. 

My  grandmother  had  the  privilege  of  naming  the 
child,  and  the  day  of  the  christening  was  a  day  of  all 
others  to  be  remembered.  I  see  those  two  old  people 
now,  standing  over  the  irreverent  little  babbler,  and 
scarce  concealing  their  smiles  as  she  throws  up  her 
chubby  hand  to  the  clergyman. 

It  is  only  a  picture  of  youth,  set  about  with  a  frame- 
work of  crisp  and  dried  mosses  ! 


CHAPTER   XL! 

JAKVIE  THATCH. 

IT  was  a  day  in  early  spring.  The  streets  of  the 
town  were  alive  with  travellers  in  quest  of  the  bracing 
airs  that  were  abroad.  The  memories  of  the  dismal 
days  that  had  gone  were  smothered  in  the  warmth  of 
the  pleasant  sunshine. 

About  the  wharves  swarmed  beings  of  all  shades  and 
colors,  that  the  spring  sun  seemed  to  have  thawed  out 
from  their  hiding-places.  Lazy  fellows  were  sunning 
themselves  against  old  buildings,  or  under  the  sides  of 
casks  and  barrels,  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  and  their 
eyes  wandering  off  over  the  glistening  water. 

A  rough-looking  man,  to  appearance  little  accustomed 
to  these  scenes  about  the  quays,  was  strolling  along 
through  the  streets,  his  face  haggard,  and  his  eye  burn- 
ing with  excitement  Ever  and  anon  he  stopped,  to 
study  more  closely  the  features  of  some  face  he  espied, 
and  then,  dropping  his  head,  walked  on  again. 

The  traveller  was  old  Jarvie  Thatch,  the  dweller  with 
little  Daisy  on  the  mountain  at  Kirkwood. 

"  That  face  looked  like  his  !  "  exclaimed  he,  in  a  sul- 
len voice.  "  I  thought  I  had  him  then  ! "  And  then  he 
would  start  off  once  more. 

Some  secret  trouble  was  preying,  like  a  vulture,  on 
his  heart.  He  was  roaming  the  streets,  as  if  he  cared 
for  no  one  living,  while  yet  each  human  face  seemed  to 
have  such  an  interest  for  him.  Now  he  just  crept  along, 

(285) 


28G  DOVECOTE. 

with  his  sharp  eyes  every  where  about  him ;  and  now 
he  took  an  impulsive  start,  and  pushed  and  drove  along 
as  if  he  saw  nothing  on  his  way. 

There  was  that  in  the  conduct  and  appearance  of  old 
Jarvie,  that  day,  to  challenge  attention.  Not  a  few 
passers  turned  half  round  to  catch  another  glimpse  of 
him  as  he  went  by,  and  not  one  who  saw  him  but 
thought  there  was  some  secret  worth  knowing  in  his 
history. 

There  was  a  secret,  and  a  fearful  one  for  one  like  him 
to  keep.  It  preyed  on  him  all  the  time.  It  allowed 
lu'm  no  rest,  day  or  night.  It  changed  his  whole  nature. 
It  had  made  him  the  hermit  he  so  long  had  been,  and 
drove  him  out  of  his  retirement  thus  regularly  on  his  er- 
ratic journeys.  He  was  under  its  controlling  influence 
while  he  wandered  about  the  docks,  and  wharves,  and 
piers,  and  when  he  plunged  within  the  purlieus  of  low 
life,  and  vice,  and  crime  —  going  to  the  very  heart  of  all, 
to  see  if  he  might  possibly  find  a  solution  for  his  prob- 
lem there. 

He  stopped  in  a  narrow  lane,  before  a  low  door,  and 
peered  cautiously  in. 

"  If  I  really  thought  any  good'd  come  of  it,"  said  he  ; 
"  if  I  only  thought  that  I  should  find  him  here  !  But 
how  can  I  expect  to  ?  It  ain't  likely  he's  a  man  to  go 
into  such  places  ;  and  yet  he  may  be.  I've  heerd  of  his 
follerin'  the  sea ;  and  may  be  he  does  now." 

A  voice  from  within  hailed  him  just  at  that  moment. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?     Come  in  !  " 

He  looked  in  again,  hesitated  a  moment  upon  the 
threshold,  and  went  in. 

The  place  was  a  sailor's  boarding  house.  A  table 
was  already  spread  for  customers  in  a  half  retreat  but 
a  little  way  from  the  door,  and  it  was  from  this  point 


JARVIE    THATCH.  287 

that  the  voice  proceeded.  The  apartment  wore  an  ex- 
ceedingly dingy  look,  and  the  furniture  seemed  in  all 
respects  to  correspond  with  it. 

The  person  who  addressed  him  was  a  round,  fat,  oily 
little  man,  with  a  rubicund  face,  on  which  the  smiles 
seemed  to  bum  and  blaze,  and  a  prompt  patronizing  air 
about  him  that  would  have  assured  any  landlord  of 
greater  pretensions  his  fortune.  As  Jarvie  stepped  in, 
he  kept  bobbing  and  bowing  his  head,  the  crown  of 
which  was  as  smooth  as  an  apple. 

Jarvie  walked  straight  up  to  him,  his  eye  kindling. 
The  host  drew  back,  half  fearing  the  strange  gleam  in 
the  stranger's  eyes.  The  former  bent  over  towards  him, 
and  said,  — 

"  Has  he  been  in  here  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  the  landlord.     "  I  guess  so.     Who  ?  " 

"  O,  then  you  don't  know !  Then  you  don't  know 
who  I  mean ! " 

The  fat  landlord  was  anxious  to  answer  all  the  inquiries 
in  his  power,  as  well  as  all  that  were  beyond  it ;  so  he 
replied  a  second  time,  — 

"  Yes,  I  guess  he's  been  in  here.  They  all  come  here. 
But  I  can't  tell  you,  you  know,  till  you  say  who  you 
mean ! " 

Jarvie  looked  at  him  fixedly,  as  if  the  man  had  some- 
how succeeded  in  tripping  him.  As  soon  as  he  came 
to  his  understanding  again,  he  stooped  down,  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear. 

The  landlord  slowly  shook  his  head,  and  threw  up 
one  foot  after  the  other,  as  if  he  were  going  to  cross  the 
room  at  a  stride. 

"  He's  the  one ! "  said  Jarvie. 
•  The  other  kept  negatively  shaking  his  head. 

"  Haven't  you  seen  him  ?  " 


288  DOVECOTE. 

"  Don't  know  him,"  answered  the  man. 

"  Don't  know  him !    I  do !  every  body  does ! " 

The  landlord  now  ceased  the  motion  of  his  head,  and 
fixed  his  eye  on  the  gleaming  eye  of  his  visitor.  He 
seemed  trying  to  get  at  the  heart  of  his  monomania. 

"  He'd  oughter  be  here,"  continued  Jarvie,  swinging 
his  arms  around.  "  He'd  oughter  be  every  where.  I 
expect  he's  all  about  the  streets.  You  know  him ! 
Every  body  knows  him ! " 

"  No,"  said  the  landlord ;  and  again  shook  his  head. 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  few  minutes,  during  which 
Jarvie  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  sanded  floor,  appearing 
to  be  lost  in  thought.  Finally  he  broke  from  it  all,  and 
asked  if  he  could  have  something  to  eat. 

"  Set  right  up  here ! "  said  the  landlord,  bustling 
about  to  make  ready  a  place  for  him  at  the  table. 

"  I'm  hungry"  added  Jarvie.  "  I've  been  without  for 
so  long,  nobody'd  believe  it.  I  walk  the  streets  all 
the  time." 

"  You  look  tired,"  returned  the  host,  going  on  with  his 
work. 

After  this  he  let  the  wandering  man  run  on  with  his 
talk  much  as  he  pleased ;  answering  an  occasional 
yes  or  no  to  the  meaningless  interrogatories  he  put  him, 
or  confirming  him  in  the  ideas  he  seemed  trying  to  ex- 
press by  such  phrases  as, "  Just  so !  "  "I  know  it ! " 

Jarvie  had  the  table  all  to  himself.  It  was  not  a  time 
in  the  day  when  there  was  an  expectation  of  much  of  a 
throng  about  the  board,  so  that  his  disposition  to  talk 
with  himself  was  little  hindered  by  the  stares,  and  re- 
torts, and  questions  of  strangers. 

While  he  ate  his  cheap  and  coarse  food,  bolting  it  as  if 
he  were  never  to  taste  the  like  again,  his  thoughts  car- 
ried him  pleasantly  back  from  this  close,  stifling  town 


JARVIE    THATCH.  289 

air,  and  those  noisy,  confused  streets,  to  the  quiet  nest 
he  had  built  for  himself  upon  the  mountain  side ;  to  the 
little  one  he  had  left  there  unprotected ;  to  the  days  he 
had  passed  in  and  around  that  spot  already,  some  of 
them  fearfully  rent  with  the  tumultuous  feelings  that 
drove  him  like  a  maddened  creature  into  the  depths  of  the 
forest,  and  some  mellowed  with  the  saddened  memories 
that  brooded  about  his  heart ;  and  as  he  saw  them  all  rise 
again  to  his  view,  the  strangest  conflict  of  emotions  was 
going  on  within  him.  He  dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
looked  up  wildly  at  the  walls. 

"  Poor  Mary !  Poor  thing ! "  exclaimed  he,  aloud. 
"  To  feel  that  you  are  without  revenge  yet !  It  'most 
kills  me  to  know  that  my  hands  are  tied  so ! " 

From  behind  the  edge  of  a  temporary  screen,  the 
landlord  looked  at  his  customer  in  profound  amazement. 
He  feared  lest  he  might  be  really  crazy ;  and  even  be- 
gan to  bestir  his  wits  to  devise  some  safe  means  of 
having  him  secured,  in  case  the  man  should  attempt  vi- 
olence. The  scowl  on  his  brow  deepened  and  darkened, 
as  Jarvie  went  on  :  — 

"  You  told  me,  Mary,  on  your  death  bed,  to  take  care 
of  the  child :  that  I've  done ;  and  that  I'm  always  goin' 
to  do,  as  long  as  I  live.  And  I  swore  at  the  same  time, 
that,  if  there  was  revenge  to  be  had  this  side  of  eternity, 
I'd  have  it!  I  will !  I'll  get  it,  if  I  wander  the  world 
over !  O,  my  poor  girl's  memory !  How  it  haunts  my 
heart  all  the  time !  What  a  feeling  comes  over  me, 
when  I  think  o'  the  wrong  that  was  done  her !  How 
my  brain  swims,  as  if  my  whole  head  was  full  o'  blood ' 
No,  Mary,  you  shall  be  remembered !  Your  father' II 
never  forget  you,  if  all  the  rest  of  the  world  does  ! " 

Then  he  fell  to  his  meal  again,  eating  his  food  with 
the  ravenousness  of  one  nearly  famished. 
25 


290  DOVECOTE. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  he  rose  from  his  seat  and 
walked  straight  to  the  fat  little  landlord,  who,  it  must  be 
added,  rather  quailed  before  him. 

"  I  can't  pay  you  for  this,"  said  Jarvie.  "  I've  got  r  o 
money ! " 

The  host  looked  half  indignant  and  half  surprised. 

"  What  d'ye  set  down  for,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  drawing 
back  still  more  than  before. 

"  I  was  starving  !  "  replied  Jarvie.  "  But  I  can't  pay 
you  now.  I'll  pay  you  some  other  time.  I'll  be  sure 
to  remember  you ! " 

There  was  something  so  impressive  and  peculiar  in 
his  manner,  that  the  taken-in  host  suffered  his  unprofit- 
able customer  to  retreat  to  the  door  and  pass  out  with- 
out the  protest  of  a  single  word.  When  he  was  gone, 
the  little  fat  man  stood  for  some  time  with  folded  arms, 
lost  in  wonder  at  the  incident  that  had  made  such  a  rip- 
ple in  his  day's  life. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

IN  THE  STREETS. 

AFTER  Jarvie  left  the  scene  of  his  refreshment,  he 
turned  himself  upon  the  town,  grappling  his  staff  more 
tightly  than  ever  as  he  went  along.  His  entire  look 
was  haggard  and  worn  enough,  so  much  so  that  not  a 
few  turned  quite  round  to  regard  him  still  more  particu- 
larly as  he  passed. 

At  first  he  followed  the  blind  course  of  alleys  and 
narrow  lanes,  uncertain  where  they  were  to  lead  him. 
By  squalid  men,  that  floated  along  in  shoals,  some  of 
them  more  squalid  even  than  himself;  under  windows 
where  wretched-looking  faces  crowded  and  husky  voices 
mixed  their  babble  on  the  air;  past  doors  where  men 
gathered  and  chatted,  some  of  them  rolling  and  reeling 
with  their  morning  potations ;  through  crowds,  jostling 
and  rubbing  as  he  went,  that  were  driving  on  for  then- 
day's  business,  or  that  were  lazily  drifting  onward  wher- 
ever chance  might  carry  them,  —  the  wretched  old  man 
wound  his  way. 

The  town  sights  were  no  sights  at  all  to  his  diseased 
mind.  His  eyes  were  not  open  to  take  in  pictures 
either  of  delight  or  misery.  He  saw  nothing  that  could 
impress  him.  He  heard  nothing,  not  so  much  as  the 
stunning  rattle  of  the  carts,  and  stages,  and  wagons. 
His  thoughts  were  nowhere  about  him,  were  on  nothing 
with  which  he  had  come  in  contact  as  yet.  His  vision 
was  wandering  and  imperfect. 

(591) 


292  DOVECOTE. 

A  man  walking  in  a  dream  would  have  been  no  inapt 
likeness  of  old  Jarvie  that  day.  His  lips  were  all  the 
time  moving,  and  he  muttered  low  and  incoherent  syl- 
lables. Now  and  then  he  would  bring  his  staff —  it  was 
the  old  oak  stick  he  had  himself  cut  on  the  mountain, 
near  Kirkwood  —  down  heavily  on  the  pavement,  as  if 
he  might  be  illustrating  his  thoughts  with  some  violent 
and  effective  gesture. 

Presently  he  entered  accidentally  upon  one  of  the 
larger  thoroughfares.  Here  every  thing  was  on  a 
grander  and  more  impressive  scale.  The  streets  were 
so  much  wider,  the  stores  were  so  much  more  splendid, 
the  people  were  so  much  better  dressed :  so  great  a 
change  called  him  to  himself,  in  spite  of  the  power  of 
his  morbidness.  The  new  sights  flashed  so  vividly 
upon  him  that  their  inspiriting  influence  at  once  entered 
all  his  thoughts.  For  a  time,  then,  he  became  simply  a 
child,  gazing,  with  the  ardor  of  young  curiosity,  at  the 
sights  that  glittered  on  his  right  hand  and  his  left,  and 
suffering  himself  to  be  elated  with  the  stirring  sounds 
that  greeted  him  on  every  hand. 

Now  he  stopped  before  a  large  plate  window,  and 
crowded  with  others  to  study  the  free  gallery  of  pic- 
tures that  was  thus  provided  for  him  in  common  with 
the  rest  There  were  beautiful  prints,  and  engravings, 
and  two  or  three  oil  paintings.  When  Jarvie  saw  them, 
all  the  traces  of  that  love  for  beauty  that  slumbered  in 
his  heart  were  awakened  again.  His  soul  warmed,  and 
his  dull  eye  kindled.  Grasping  his  staff  with  another 
clutch,  he  crossed  his  hands  behind  him,  and  feasted  on 
the  bounty  that  had  been  spread  for  all. 

There  was  one  picture  —  a  portrait.  How  much  he 
thought  it  resembled  Mary  —  his  Mary !  Could  it 
have  been  copied  from  her  features  ?  Could  it  be  pos- 


IN    THE    STREETS.  293 

sible  that  she  had  ever  looked  at  that  painting  herself 
in  years  past,  and  watched  the  slow  process  of  its  skil- 
ful completion  ? 

The  very  possibility  of  such  a  thing  —  delusive  as  the 
thought  really  was  —  was  enough  to  fire  all  his  feelings 
anew.  His  energies  suddenly  flamed  up,  and  he  felt 
himself  younger  by  many  and  many  a  year.  There  was 
the  dear  face  of  Mary,  just  as  it  looked  before  trouble 
had  set  its  burning  seal  upon  its  features.  There  was 
that  speaking  eye,  full  of  affection  for  her  old  father, 
and  holding  evidence  of  the  store  that  was  to  be  thrown 
away  on  another.  About  the  lines  of  her  mouth  the 
same  pleasant  smile  was  playing  —  the  smile  that  had 
held  his  heart  in  subjection  since  the  innocent  days  of 
her  childhood. 

Was  this  all  a  dream  ?  Could  illusion  be  produced 
that  would  be  able  to  work  such  deep  changes  in  his 
feelings  ?  Was  he  to  wake  from  this  sad  yet  delightful 
deceit,  and  find  himself  ten  times  more  bereft  than 
before  ? 

The  people  came  up  to  the  window,  looked  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  and  moved  on.  But  Jarvie  stood  firmly  to 
his  ground.  He  saw  nothing  about  him ;  his  thoughts 
were  upon  nothing  but  the  single  picture  that  had  so 
taken  him  captive. 

A  gentleman  finally  came  out  from  the  store,  and  told 
him  not  to  stand  before  his  window  any  longer ;  it  was 
not  a  place  for  such  as  he  to  collect ! 

The  dream  was  all  broken  then  — -  shivered,  shattered 
into  a  thousand  fragments. 

Jarvie  looked  up  with  a  half-melancholy  expression 

in  the  man's  face,  but  said  nothing.     The  sadness  was 

lying  across  his  heart,  so  that  words  were  not  at  his 

command.     He  felt    no   resentment  —  nothing  like  a 

25* 


294  DOVECOTE. 

flaming  up  of  passion  ;  but,  giving  the  man  a  reproach- 
ful look,  he  turned  silently  away. 

All  through  the  day  he  wandered  in  the  streets,  with 
out  plan  and  without  purpose.  There  was  a  single 
thought  that  engrossed  him ;  and  he  followed  blindly  on 
after  its  wayward  impulses.  It  was  to  hunt  down  the 
author  of  all  his  misery.  It  was  to  fall  upon  him,  when- 
ever and  wherever  he  might  be  found,  and  silence  the 
beating  of  his  black  heart  at  once  and  forever. 

The  influence  of  the  pictures  had  left  him  ;  or,  if  yet 
alive,  it  was  only  to  kindle  his  nature  with  new  thoughts 
of  revenge.  If  it  worked  within  him  at  all,  it  was  to 
change  the  current  of  his  feelings,  freezing  them  where 
they  but  now  were  so  genial,  and  firing  them  where  but 
so  lately  they  were  at  rest 

He  begged  for  his  dinner,  which  he  jbtained  only 
after  many  repulses  and  much  difficulty.  At  the  areas 
where  he  preferred  his  supplications  servant  maids  told 
him  "  No,"  very  sharply,  and  said  he  had  better  be  gone. 
Ladies  shunned  contact  with  him  on  the  walks,  so  that 
he  saw  his  best  course  would  be  to  take  to  the 
edge  of  the  curbstone.  He  threw  his  face  up  towards 
the  shining  windows  of  the  elegant  dwellings,  and  tried 
to  study  the  great  cause  of  the  difference  in  worldly 
conditions.  As  elegantly  attired  females  swept  by  him, 
deigning  no  notice  of  so  miserable  a  being  as  himself, 
they  knew  not  that  a  keen  and  searching  pair  of  eyes 
was  upon  them,  and  that  an  active  brain  was  endeavor- 
ing to  understand  the  true  secret  of  their  superiority 
over  an  humbler  child,  like  his  own  dead  one. 

He  stopped  and  gazed  up  at  the  golden  dials  of  the 
town  clocks,  notching  off  the  moments  with  his  eyes. 
His  vision  ran  up  the  slender  spires  and  steeples,  and 
then  swam  away  in  the  melting  sea  of  blue  just  beyond 


IN    THE    STREETS.  295 

How  his  thoughts  went  out  through  his  eyes,  and  sailed 
away  to  the  dim  and  distant  regions  where  he  felt  lived 
the  idol  of  his  heart ! 

A  man,  wearing  a  badge  of  office,  accosted  him 
towards  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  and  asked  him  what 
he  was  doing,  standing  about  so. 

Jarvie  sullenly  answered,  "  Nothing,"  and  eyed  the 
functionary  keenly. 

"  Then  you'd  better  keep  moving,"  suggested  the 
latter. 

"  It's  jest  what  I've  been  doin'  all  day,"  said  he. 

"  Where  do  you  think  of  going  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  as  if  he  meant  to  say  he  didn't 
know. 

"  You  mustn't  stand  about  in  this  way,"  repeated  the 
man.  "  If  you've  got  any  where  to  go,  move  along  !  " 

Jarvie  wanted  to  ask  him  how  he  should  do,  if  he 
hadn't  any  particular  place  to  go  to ;  but  he  was  thought- 
ful enough  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  walked  on. 

He  crossed  into  another  street,  and  followed  its  course 
for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Then  he  turned  at  his 
right  hand,  and  walked  back  for  twice  that  distance. 
Then  the  streets  seemed  to  diverge  as  from  a  common 
centre  ;  and  he  took  the  narrowest,  in  which  human  life 
seemed  to  be  most  crowded,  and  where  there  was,  ap- 
parently, the  best  prospect  of  studying  the  passing  faces. 

So  he  threaded  his  way  among  the  crowds,  at  this 
time  in  the  day  more  dense  and  bustling  than  ever. 
Working  people  were  going  home  from  their  day's  busi- 
ness, many  of  them  with  the  pails  and  baskets  in  which 
they  were  wont  to  carry  their  dinners.  Girls  walked  by 
him,  weary  and  pale  from  their  steady  confinement. 
He  studied  all  their  expressions,  all  the  time  thinking 
only  of  that  one  face  that  was  mirrored  in  his  heart: 


296  POVECOTE. 

Boys  were  out,  crying  newspapers  and  shouting  to 
each  other.  Carts  were  going  by  without  loads,  as  if 
to  another  night's  rest  from  labor.  In  the  shop  windows 
the  flare  of  gaslights  might  here  and  there  be  seen, 
though,  as  yet,  the  illumination  was  not  general.  Clerks 
were  moving  articles  from  the  doors  within,  and  shut- 
ting out  the  cool  night  air  from  the  shops.  And  men 
stood  at  corners,  some  of  them  giving  hurried  directions 
to  porters,  and  others  comparing  notes  on  the  day's  pro- 
ceedings. 

Faster  and  faster  now  the  night  shadows  gathered, 
crowding  down  between  the  tops  of  the  high  buildings, 
and  blocking  up  the  entrances  to  the  streets  with  gloom. 
The  old  man's  eyes  were  more  piercing  than  ever.  He 
seemed  to  grope  his  way  along  now,  looking  carefully 
in  the  face  of  every  man  he  met.  He  clutched  his 
heavy  oak  stick  still  more  firmly,  and  struck  it  smartly 
against  the  pavement. 

A  newsboy  cried  his  wares  exactly  in  his  face,  making 
him  start  with  alarm. 

"  You  little  villain ! "  he  muttered,  half  raising  his 
stick. 

A  heavy  cart  rambled  along  behind  him,  and  the 
horse's  nose  just  brushed  his  shoulder. 

He  jumped  half  across  the  sidewalk  to  escape  the 
impending  danger. 

By  and  by  the  lights  grew  more  plenty.  They 
winked  at  him  from  the  tall  lantern  posts  that  lined  the 
streets,  and  flashed  in  his  face  from  the  shop  windows. 
His  complexion  looked  much  darker  than  usual  in  their 
glare,  and  his  expression  vastly  more  haggard  and  re- 
pulsive. People  passed  him  as  if  he  were  an  object  of 
their  suspicion. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  short.     His  quick  eye  caught  a 


IN    THE    STREETS.  297 

glimpse  of  a  face  he  thought  he  knew.  He  threw  him- 
self exactly  in  the  way  of  a  man  who  was  passing,  and 
clutched  him  fiercely  by  the  throat. 

"  Villain !  Death  to  you  now !  I've  found  you  at 
last !  "  were  his  threatening  exclamations. 

At  the  same  time  he  raised  his  heavy  staff,  and  began 
to  deal  the  blows  about  him,  with  no  regard  to  any  one's 
safety.  JHis  brain  was  on  fire.  His  eyes  swam  in 
blood.  He  worked  his  features  into  the  most  terrible 
shapes.  The  frowns  on  his  face  were  as  dark  and 
threatening  as  clouds  full  of  storms. 

"  What  is  this  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  shouted  the 
victim,  appalled  by  so  unexpected  an  attack.  "  Hands 
off!  Away  with  you  !  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean ! "  cried  Jarvie,  in  return. 
"  I  have  hunted  long  for  you  !  I've  found  you  at  last ! 
There  —  go  to  your  doom  !  " 

He  bestowed  a  heavy  blow  as  he  spoke,  which  the 
man  caught  with  his  arm.  Still  he  kept  his  hold  at  his 
throat. 

At  this  opportune  moment  a  crowd  began  to  gather. 
Some  one  cried  one  thing,  and  some  another.  All 
united  in  seizing  hold,  finally,  of  the  madman,  and  se- 
curing his  arms  from  the  possibility  of  further  mischief. 

An  officer  came  up  and  marched  him  off  to  the  sta- 
tion house,  under  a  popular  escort.  His  victim,  how- 
ever, caught  his  fierce  look,  as  they  were  carrying  him 
away.  Evidently  he  saw  who  he  was,  for,  on  the  in- 
stant, he  plunged  into  the  crowd  of  passers,  determined 
to  keep  out  of  the  public  view. 


CHAPTER   XLIIL 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  MAN. 

AMONG  those  that  followed  the  unfortunate  prisoner 
along  was  a  newsboy,  who  carried  his  dwindled  bundle 
tightly  under  his  left  arm,  and  ceased  his  crying  until 
he  could  find  time  to  gratify  his  curiosity. 

The  mob  swelled  as  it  went  on,  much  like  a  snowball 
in  its  course  down  a  hill.  All  sorts  of  .people  joined  in 
the  pursuit.  Some  hurried  to  the  shop  doors,  and 
looked  out  eagerly  to  know  what  all  the  tumult  meant 
Others  moved  off  briskly  from  the  walks,  unwilling  to 
encounter  so  formidable  an  assemblage.  In  the  front 
of  all  walked  the  prisoner.  He  was  bareheaded  now, 
and  his  oak  staff  had  been  taken  from  him.  His  eyes 
were  bent  upon  the  ground,  and,  from  the  expression  of 
his  face,  one  would  believe  that  his  thoughts  troubled 
him  seriously. 

One  and  another  offered  some  word  to  him ;  but  he 
took  no  heed  of  any  thing.  He  merely  bent  to  the  fate 
that  had  overtaken  him,  trying  to  disguise  his  deep  cha- 
grin in  the  best  way  he  could. 

He  was  conducted  to  a  lockup,  and  there  secured  for 
the  night.  Those  about  the  office  of  the  prison  asked 
him  no  questions,  but  suffered  him  to  sit  moodily,  for  a 
short  time,  on  the  low  bench  on  which  he  had  been 
placed,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

A  boy  came  and  ventured  to  sit  down  beside  him.  It 
would  seem  that  his  curiosity  was  no  larger  than  his 

(908) 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    MAN.  299 

sympathy.  There  was  something  in  the  worn  look 
of  the  man  that  appealed  to  his  tenderer  feelings  at 
once. 

He  spoke  to  Jarvie,  hoping  to  get  a  reply.  But  the 
man  kept  his  face  downwards,  lost  in  the  depths  of  his 
wretchedness. 

The  boy  was  little  Billy  Stokes  —  the  old  friend  of 
Milly,  and  the  later  friend  of  Snarly  Moll ! 

Could  it  be  that  his  young  heart,  tutored  as  it  must 
be  to  such  scenes,  still  retained  a  germ  of  sympathy  for 
every  sufferer  ? 

"  Could  I  be  of  any  help  to  you  ?  "  inquired  he,  in  his 
pleasant  voice. 

The  tone  in  which  it  was  given  awoke  Jarvie  from 
his  dull  revery.  He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  round 
at  his  side,  where  Billy  sat.  After  he  had  reviewed 
him  carefully,  he  answered,  — 

"  What  can  such  as  you  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  what  good  I  can,"  said  Billy.     "  I'm  wittiri  I " 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Jarvie,  extending  his  own. 
"  We'll  strike  a  friendship  from  this  minute  !  But  you 
can't  be  of  any  help." 

"  Why  not  ?     Try  me.     Tell  me  how." 

"  You  wouldn't  know  how  to  go  to  work,"  returned 
Jarvie,  shaking  his  head.  "  But  you're  a  brave  little  fel- 
ler, though.  God  bless  ye  for  your  kindness !  May- 
hap you'll  make  a  man  yet ! " 

Billy  was  going  to  say  he  hoped  so,  when  one  of  the 
officers  about  the  place  interrupted  them. 

"  Come,"  said  he  to  Jarvie. 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  I'll  show  you.  Into  another  room.  Here  —  this 
way ! " 

Billy  at  once  rose  to  his  feet,  and  begged  permission 


300  DOVECOTE. 

of  the  officer,  in  a  whisper,  to  go  with  him  for  a  few 
minutes. 

"  What  for  ?  "  inquired  he,  looking  at  him  closely. 

"  O,  I  want  to  talk,"  said  Billy. 

"  Talk?" 

'*-Yes ;  somethin'  pertikler." 

"  You  can't  stay  long,  if  you  do,"  said  the  officer. 

"  Only  a  few  minnits,"  said  Billy.  "  He  wants  me. 
Til  be  much  obliged  for  it." 

"  /don't  care,"  returned  the  man ;  and  led  them  both 
into  a  close  apartment,  locking  the  door  after  him. 

"  Have  they  locked  you  up,  too  ?  "  asked  Jarvie,  turn- 
ing round  and  finding  only  his  little  friend  with  him. 
"  What  have  you  been  doin'  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  asked  to  come  in  with  you.  They'll 
let  me  out  agin,  I  guess." 

The  unhappy  man  seated  himself  on  the  bench  that 
was  placed  against  the  wall,  and  put  on  all  his  former 
gloom  again.  His  countenance  fell  rapidly,  a  thing 
Billy  Stokes  was  nowise  slow  to  perceive. 

"  What  did  they  take  you  for  ?  "  asked  Billy.  "  What 
did  you  do  ?  " 

"  Then  you  didn't  see  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  come  along  with  the  crowd." 

"  'Twas  nothing,"  said  Jarvie ;  "  only  I  knocked  a 
man." 

"  Thafs  something,  I  sh'd  think.  Hurt  him  much? 
Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I'd  killed  him,"  answered  Jarvie ;  "  but  I 
guess  I  didn't." 

"  What  for  ?     What's  he  done  ?  " 

"  Robbed  me ;  robbed  me  of  all  I  had  !  " 

"  Phew !  "  ejaculated  the  youthful  newsman.  "  Then 
I  should  thought  they'd  took  him  !  " 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    MAN.  30} 

"  So  any  body  would ;  but  they  didn't.  My  boy,  do 
you  know  —  or,  if  you  don't,  you  will  —  that  justice 
ain't  to  be  got  in  this  world  ?  that  every  thing  goes  by 
chance?  that  my  life  hasn't  been  any  thing  but  luek 
and  chance  from  the  beginning  ?  " 

Billy  looked  serious  and  thoughtful 

"  That  man  ought  to  ha'  died  long  ago !  He  ain't 
worthy  to  live  !  But  he  goes  free,  and  Jam  locked  up  ! 
That's  the  way  the  world  wags,  my  little  son." 

"  Why  didn't  you  never  tell  on  him,  then  ?  "  ventured 
Billy. 

"  I  never  see  him  till  to-night ;  and  I've  waited  and 
watched  for  him  these  years  !  How  could  I  tell  on  him  ? 
Besides,  what  he  done  people  don't  consider  crime. 
They  don't  punish  a  man  for  breaking  a  father's  heart. 
But  if  he  niches  from  his  pocket,  the  prison  doors  swing 
open  for  him  of  themselves.  That's  it,  my  son.!  " 

"  Did  he  break  your  heart  ?  "  innocently  pursued  the 
boy,  little  versed  in  such  matters  theoretically. 

"  He's  come  as  near  to  it  as  any  body  ever  will,"  an- 
swered Jarvie.  "  But  what  of  that  ?  There  ain't  no 
punishment  for  him,  only  what  I've  a  mind  to  deal  out 
myself,  as  I  was  a-doin'.  But  the  minnit  one  takes  such 
matters  into  his  own  hands,  see  how  they  pull  him,  and 
claw  him,  and  lug  him  off  to  prison  !  See  what  a  black 
mob  follows  him,  as  if  every  man'd  like  to  tear  his  heart 
out ! " 

"  It's  hard,"  sympathized  the  boy. 

"  You'll  know  it  for  yourself,  as  soon  as  you  get  along 
farther  in  life.  I  never  hit  the  man  so  mueh  as  a  smart 
rap,  he  kept  off  my  stick  so  well ;  but  that  ain't  saying 
I  didn't  mean  to.  Id  ^-killed  him,  certain,  if  I  could. 
He  deserves  it  If  nobody  else'd  do  it,  /  was  ready 
to." 

26 


302  DOVECOTE. 

"  But  where  had  you  seen  him  before  ? "  asked  Billy, 
pursuing  the  subject  along  to  its  source. 

"  You  can't  know  that,"  answered  Jarvie,  mournfully. 
"  It's  more  than  I  can  tell.  I'd  tell  you,  if  I  told  any 
body,  for  I  seem  to  think  you  don't  like  to  see  me  in 
trouble." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Billy. 

"  But  I  must  keep  that  secret  for  myself.  I  can 
carry  it  about  with  me  whole  better  than  I  can  break  it 
up  and  divide  it  round.  Yet  it  troubles  me  a  good 
deal." 

"  Then  the  man  must  be  afraid  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  he'll  show  himself  agin,"  said  Jarvie. 

"  If  he  don't,"  answered  Billy,  "  then  you  won't  have 
no  cause  to  fear ;  for  there'll  be  nothin'  against  you." 

Jarvie  pondered  upon  it 

"  That's  true  enough ! "  finally  exclaimed  he,  his 
countenance  lighting  up.  "  That's  true  enough !  Id 
never  ha'  thought  on  it !  " 

"  And  so  you'll  go  free,"  added  Billy. 

"  Then  I'll  go  free  !  "  repeated  the  old  man.  "  Til 
have  no  fears  of  myself  now.  He'll  never  dare  to  make 
complaint  of  mei  and  so  they'll  discharge  me.  That's 
it  Why  didn't  I  think  o'  that  before  ?  But  you're  a 
right  pleasant  little  fellow,  ain't  you  ?  " 

Billy  looked  modest ;  and  told  him  he  didn't  like  to 
see  any  body  suffer  —  man,  woman,  or  child. 

"  You're  right !  "  exclaimed  Jarvie.  "  You're  right ! 
I  hope  you'll  find  somebody  at  your  hand  when  you're 
in  trouble  yourself." 

"  I  hope  I  never*!!  git  into  trouble,"  rejoined  he. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Jarvie,  "  that's  better  yet !  But. 
then,  one  can't  tell  what's  goin'  to  happen,  you  know 
The  world's  full  of  chance.  /  never  thought  o'  bein' 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    MAN.  303 

here,  and  brought  here  for  such  a  crime  as  I  might  ha' 
done.  It  was  chance  that  brought  me  here." 

"  And  chance,"  added  Billy,  "  that  saved  that  man's 
life,  and  your  own,  too  !  " 

"  Jest  so,  my  son,"  acquiesced  Jarvie.  "  But  111  see 
more  of  you,  some  time.  I  hope  you'll  prosper,  wher- 
ever you  be." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  officer  opened  the  door,  and 
told  the  boy  he  must  go  out  of  the  room.  He  could  not 
allow  him  to  stay  longer. 

Billy  started  for  the  door,  throwing  a  look  full  of  sym- 
pathy upon  the  unhappy  old  man  as  he  went.  Jarvie 
returned  it,  and  exclaimed,  as  he  extended  him  his 
rough  hand, — 

"  May  Heaven  prosper  you  !  Go  on  as  you  do  now, 
and  you'll  cc»me  out  as  well  as  any  body !  Good 
night ! "  * 

And  with  the  slam  of  the '  heavy  door  Jarvie  Thatch 
was  left  alone  to  himself  and  his  reflections.  The 
apartment  was  dark  and  quite  gloomy.  His  thoughts, 
too,  were  but  little  at  variance  with  the  aspect  of  the 
place.  He  sat  for  an  hour  or  more  afterwards,  brooding 
over  the  first  trouble  that  had  wrought  for  him  such 
complete  desolation. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A  JOYFUL  MEETING. 

THERE  was  great  joy  expressed  in  the  countenance 
of  Miss  Nancy,  one  day,  as  she  opened  and  read  a  let- 
ter that  had  just  been  brought  her  from  the  post  office  ; 
and  while  the  rest  were  waiting  to  learn  what  was  the 
cause  of  it  all,  that  they  might  share  it  with  her,  she 
told  them  that  her  friend,  Mrs.  Trevor,  had  proposed 
coming  to  Dovecote  for  a  few  days,  as  soon  as  she 
should  have  finished  a  visit  at  a  point  on  the  way. 

The  children  all  immediately  clapped  their  hands, 
and  seemed  as  much  delighted  as  Miss  Nancy  herself. 

"  When  will  she  come  ?  What  day  will  she  be 
here  ? "  was  asked  by  more  than  one. 

"  Next  week,"  replied  Miss  Nancy,  again  referring  to 
her  letter ;  "  on  Thursday." 

The  intelligence  was  the  signal  for  a  general  juvenile 
race  about  the  house  and  around  the  yard.  One  told 
the  other  of  it,  as  if  the  latter  had  not  heard  it  too  ;  and 
all  joined  in  saying  that  they  knew  she  would  be  good 
company,  for  she  was  a  friend  of  Miss  Nancy. 

The  latter  still  held  Milly  by  her  side,  talking  with 
her  about  it. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  want  to  show  her  what  a 
nice  little  friend  I've  got  here ;  and  I  know  she'll  envy 
me  the  possession.  It  was  in  coming  from  a  visit  with 
her  that  I  found  you,  dear  Milly.  Was  any  thing  ever 
more  fortunate  ?  " 

(304) 


A   JOYFUL    MEETING.  305 

We  counted  the  days  impatiently  till  that  before  the 
appointed  Thursday,  and  then  we  slowly  notched  off 
the  hours.  It  seemed  as  if  this  last  day  was  the  long- 
est of  all.  From  Thursday  morning's  breakfast  till  the 
late  hour  for  the  appearance  of  the  coach  at  the  inn, 
there  was  a  universal  watching  and  wondering. 

At  last  the  carryall  came  up  the  avenue,  with  my 
father  driving,  and  Miss  Nancy  and  her  friend  on  the 
back  seat.  As  soon  as  we  espied  the  latter,  there  was 
a  spontaneous  burst  of  joy. 

But  as  eyes  grew  sharper,  and  observation  became 
more  close,  it  was  discovered  that  the  vehicle  contained 
still  another.  It  was  a  girl,  and  a  stranger.  We  were 
all  lost  in  our  attempts  to  guess  who  she  could  be. 

They  came  up  before  the  door  and  got  out.  As  soon 
as  they  entered  the  door,  a  very  unexpected  cause  of 
excitement  offered  itself.  The  girl  Mrs.  Trevor  had 
brought  with  her  ran  hastily  up  to  Milly  and  kissed  her 
right  heartily.  No  one  knew  what  to  make  of  it.  And 
the  affair  became  still  more  complicated,  when  it  was 
observed  that  Milly  returned  her  affectionate  advances 
with  quite  as  much  warmth  as  they  were  offered. 

The  stranger  girl  was  nobody  but  Snarly  Moll.  She  had 
had  the  good  luck  to  drift  into  the  pleasant  harbor  Mrs. 
Trevor's  house  offered  her  from  the  tempestuous  ocean 
she  had  sailed  all  her  life,  and  had  now  come  out  to 
Dovecote  with  her  new  mistress,  to  be  deeply  surprised 
herself,  and  to  surprise  the  rest  as  well. 

"  Why,  Milly ! "  was  her  first  exclamation. 

Both  Mrs.  Trevor  and  Miss  Nancy  regarded  them 
with  astonishment. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  asked  the  latter,  in  an  undertone. 

"  A  little  girl  I  took ;  but  how  should  she  know  her  ?  " 
returned  Mrs.  Trevor. 
26* 


306  DOVECOTE. 

"  That  passes  my  comprehension.  We  shall  learn, 
however,  in  good  time,  I  do  not  doubt." 

The  girls,  after  their  first  interview,  sat  apart,  looking 
at  each  other,  but  saying  nothing. 

Mrs.  Trevor  asked  Snarly  Moll,  as  soon  as  the  family 
circle  became  somewhat  composed,  where  she  had  seen 
little  Milly  before.  The  girl  hung  her  head,  and  seemed 
excessively  loath  to  answer.  So  the  question,  just  at  that 
time,  was  not  pressed. 

Then  Miss  Nancy  asked  Milly  if  she  knew  Moll  be- 
fore  that  day. 

"  Yes,"  was  her  candid  answer. 

"  Well,  where  did  you  ever  see  her  before  ? " 

Milly  half  hesitated.  It  was  quite  natural  that  she 
should  have  a  repugnance  to  bringing  up  the  reminis- 
cences of  the  Byeboro'  poorhouse. 

"  Where  I  lived  once,"  finally  replied  she,  however. 

Miss  Nancy  threw  a  quick  glance  at  her  friend,  and 
said  to  her,  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  by  and  by." 

It  was  not  a  great  while  after  that  the  two  waifs  of 
fortune,  Milly  and  Molly,  found  an  opportunity  to  hold 
the  private  and  prolonged  conference  each  so  much  de- 
sired. They  went  out  behind  the  old  barn,  and  sat 
down  just  beyond  the  heavy  latticed  gate  that  opened 
upon  the  pasture. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  since  they  last  saw  each  other, 
and  they  betrayed  their  astonishment  at  first  by  staring 
very  steadily  into  one  another's  eyes.  Then  words  came 
slowly  and  by  degrees.  Moll,  however,  was  much  the 
more  ready  with  them. 

"  It's  so  strange,"  said  she,  "  that  I  should  find  you 
here !  I  never  thought  o'  such  a  thing !  I've  thought 
of  you  a  good  deal,  fust  and  last,  as  I  had  time ;  but 


A    JOYFUL    MEETING  307 

little  was  the  idee  I  had  that  you'd  turn  up  in  this  quiet 
place.  Most  as  pleasant  as  Byeboro',  ain't  it  ? "  And  she 
nudged  Milly  with  her  elbow,  and  laughed  in  her  face. 

"  I  had  rather  live  here  than  at  Byeboro',"  said  Milly. 
"  I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  there." 

"  But  how  did  ye  do  it  ? "  asked  Moll.  "  That's  what 
puzzled  us  all.  We  lost  you ;  and  every  body  was  a 
wonderin'  and  huntin'  round  to  know  where  you'd  gone 
to.  And  you  went  in  the  night,  too  !  We  see  you  go  to 
bed;  but  when  we  got  up,  you  was  gone  !  It  troubled 
old  Flox  a  good  deal.  You  remember  him,  don't  ye  ? " 

Milly  thought  he  had  a  small  place  in  her  memory. 

"  Wai,  I  s'pose  he  was  afeard  folks  would  think  he'd 
made  'way  with  you,  or  somethin'  else  as  bad;  and 
that's  what  troubled  him.  You  never  see  a  man  so 
worked  up  as  he  was.  And  I  was  glad  of  it,  too ! " 

"  But  how  did  you  get  away  ?  "  inquired  Milly. 

"  Run  away,"  promptly  answered  the  other.  "  Ain't 
that  the  way  you  got  clear  yourself?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  was  sick  of  staying 
there.  I  never  was  used  to  such  people." 

"  Poor  thing !  No  more  did  the  rest  on  us  think  so, 
at  the  time  !  For  one,  though,  I  felt  glad  when  you'd 
certainly  gone.  I  knew  you  couldn't  git  no  worse  place ; 
and  perhaps  there  was  a  chance  of  a  better  somewhere. 
And  you've  found  it !  How  did  ye  ? " 

Milly  then  began  and  narrated  to  her  Byeboro'  ac- 
quaintance the  whole  story  of  her  escape  from  the  poor- 
house  prison  with  Adam  Drowne,  and  of  her  protracted 
journey  with  him ;  of  their  good  and  bad  fortune  by  the 
way ;  of  her  accidental  separation  from  her  protector ;  of 
her  trouble  on  the  crowded  steamboat,  and  the  kind 
sympathy  of  a  strange  lady ;  and,  finally,  of  her  being 
brought  straight  to  the  quiet  door  of  Dovecote  by  her 


JUO  DOVECOTE. 

unknown  friend,  by  whose  side  she  had  to  that  day  con- 
tentedly remained. 

The  story  struck  the  mind  of  Moll  as  being  a  very 
strange  one  indeed.  There  was  a  mystery  in  the  good 
fortune  of  her  friend  that  one  like  her  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  fathom. 

"  You  was  lucky,  wan't  you  ? "  exclaimed  she,  as  soon 
as  her  surprise  would  allow  her. 

"  I  am  glad  to  live  here,"  answered  Milly ;  and,  in- 
deed, the  expression  of  her  countenance  at  that  moment 
showed  it. 

"  And  old  Adam,  old  crazy  Adam ;  what  ever  got  him, 
I  wonder  ?  He  never  come  back  again,  while  /  was 
at  ByeboroV 

"  He's  been  here,"  Milly  told  her. 

This  was  another  surprise. 

"  Why,  how  you  talk !  I  never  heerd  sich  stories  as 
you're  a  tellin'  of  me  !  Adam  Drowne  been  here !  How 
come  he  to  find  the  way  ?  How  come  he  to  know  you 
was  here?" 

"  He  didn't,  I  guess ;  but  he  came  by  accident.  He 
didn't  come  to  the  house  here ;  I  saw  him  over  in  the 
meadow." 

"  In  the  medder !  Adam  Drowne  wandering  round 
here,  in  these  parts  !  I  wonder  where  he  don't  go, 
now ! " 

And  so  every  body  else,  who  knew  him,  wondered. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  yourself,"  begged  Milly.  "  How 
did  you  get  here  with  that  lady,  Miss  Nancy's  friend." 

"  Whose  friend,  did  you  say  ? "  asked  the  other,  her 
ears  open  to  catch  every  thing. 

"  Miss  Nancy's. " 

"  Then  she's  the  lady  that  fetched  you  here  ?  the  one 
that  rode  up  with  us  from  the  tavern  down  here." 


A    JOYFUL    MEETING  309 

"  Yes,"  said  Milly,  "  that's  the  one.  She's  Miss 
Nancy." 

"  Wai,  how  did  I  get  acquainted  with  Miss  Trevor, 
do  you  say  ?  I'll  tell  you.  It  wan't  a  great  while  after 
you  got  out  of  the  old  Byeboro'  poorhouse  that  I  thought 
I'd  do  somethin'  much  the  same  way.  So  I  followed 
on,  too." 

"  Who  came  with  you  ?  "  interrupted  Milly. 

"  Who  come  with  me  ?  I  come  alone ;  and  afoot, 
too.  I  made  my  tracks  in  the  road  jest  as  quick  as  I 
could  get  off.  I'd  no  notion,  at  the  time,  where  I  was 
goin'  to  ;  but  yet  I'd  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  for 
the  city,  in  the  end.  You  know  you'd  told  me  a  good 
deal  about  the  people  there  was  there,  and  the  streets, 
and  the  shops,  and  the  houses.  I'd  had  it  in  my  mind 
to  go  there  ever  since  I'd  heerd  you  talk  so  about  it.  I 
knew  there'd  be  a  better  chance  there  than  in  that  dis- 
mal old  dungeon  of  a  poorhouse,  even  if  there  wan't  no 
chance  at  all.  I'd  lived  in  poorhouses  all  my  life,  and 
I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  a  change." 

"  And  you've  had  one,  too  ?  " 

"  That,  indeed,  I  have  ;  and  a  good  one,  too,  I  assure 
you.  When  I  reached  the  city,  —  and  it  cost  me  some 
time  to  git  along  that  fur,  —  I  found  I  had  every  thing 
in  the  world  aginst  me.  It  seemed  as  if  all  my 
troubles  come  to  once.  At  Byeboro',  now,  one  thing 
come  to  a  time ;  but,  there,  I  thought  my  strength 
wan't  enough  for  'em  altogether. 

"  I  wandered  round  the  streets,  and  went  into  some 
few  houses  to  git  work ;  but  nobody  knew  me,  and 
nobody  seemed  to  want  to.  I  couldn't  give  folks  no 
recommend,  you  know,  because  I  never'd  worked  no- 
where. So  some  of  'em  shook  their  heads  at  me  only ; 
and  some  said,  '  No,'  jest  as  short  as  piecrust ;  and 


310  DOVECOTE. 

some  told  me  to  look  out  and  take  good  care  of  my  fin 
gers  as  I  went  out,  or  perhaps  I  might  get  a  home  on 
the  island.  That's  where  the  long,  stone  prison  is,  you 
know. 

"  Finally,  one  day,  1  come  up  with  a  newsboy.  He 
wasn't  so  big  as  I  was  ;  but  nothing  did  I  care  for  that 
He  had  a  right  good  face ;  and  I  felt  as  if  he'd  got  a 
heart,  too,  young  as  he  was.  So  I  jest  asked  him  what 
he  could  do  for  me,  in  the  way  of  giving  me  a  penny  or 
two  to  get  a  bite  of  food.  What  do  you  think  the  little 
feller  did  ?  Why,  he  told  me  to  come  straight  along 
after  him.  And  I  did.  He  took  me  to  where  he  lived, 
and  told  his  kind  mother  about  me.  She  set  me  up  to 
her  own  table  right  off,  — bless  her  soul !  —  and  give  me 
as  good  a  supper  as  I  ever  had.  And  what  was  more 
yit,  she  made  me  stay  all  night,  too,  and  a  good  lot  of 
other  nights,  besides ;  and,  ever  so  long  after,  she  put 
me  in  the  way  of  gittin'  the  place  I  have  got,  through 
one  of  her  friends.  If  ever  any  body  had  cause  to  be 
glad,  it's  myself. 

"  And  there's  another  thing,  Milly,  that's  better  than 
all  yit.  That  woman  and  little  boy  said  they  know'd 
you  through  and  through  !  " 

Milly  started. 

"  Her  name  was  Stokes ;  and  she  said  you  used  to 
live  right  in  the  same  house,  next  room,  right-hand  side. 
I  never  was  more  struck  in  all  my  life ;  and  I've  been 
struck  pretty  hard  with  some  things,  too." 

It  was  impossible  for  the  child  to  get  over  her  sur- 
prise. Nor  was  her  delight  any  the  less  to  know  that 
her  old  friend  Moll  had  been  the  recipient  of  Mrs. 
Stokes's  kindness,  and  had  been  saved  from  starvation 
itself  by  the  generous  intervention  of  Billy. 

She  had  a  hundred  questions  to  ask  about  them  all ; 


A   JOYFUL   MEETING.  311 

and,  while  Moll  was  answering  them,  and  Milly  was 
listening  with  intense  eagerness,  Miss  Nancy  made  her 
appearance  round  the  corner  of  the  barn,  and  broke  up, 
for  the  time,  the  interview. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

DURING  Mrs.  Trevor's  stay  at  Dovecote,  Milly  and 
Moll  went  rambling  over  the  meadows  one  pleasant 
forenoon,  careless  where  the  impulse  might  lead  them. 

The  air  was  fresh  and  invigorating,  and  set  Milly's 
pulses  to  bounding  with  a  new  life.  She  looked  more 
a  little  angel  than  a  mortal,  as  she  went  skipping  and 
tripping  along,  her  long  curls  streaming  away  from  her 
head,  the  bloom  showing  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
kindling  with  pleasure. 

"  This  is  all  pleasant,"  said  Moll,  surveying  the  de- 
lightful walks  over  which  she  took  her.  "  This  is  as 
pleasant  as  the  city,  I  declare." 

"  Pleasanter  !  "  insisted  Milly. 

"  Wai,  I  don't  know  but  'tis.  I  should  think  you'd  be 
happy  here,  I'm  sure." 

They  came  to  a  stone  wall  by  and  by,  to  the  top  of 
which  they  climbed ;  and,  perched  on  this  elevation, 
they  sat  for  some  time,  talking  of  their  old  acquaintance, 
and  admiring  the  charming  scene  of  the  morning.  Milly 
would,  in  one  breath,  ask  something  more  about  Mrs. 
Stokes ;  and,  in  the  next,  tell  Moll  to  look  yonder  and 
see  the  little  brook  swimming  down  through  the  rich, 
green  grass. 

The  notes  they  had  to  compare  were  enough  to  have 
held  the  attention  of  ordinary  business  people  a  much 
longer  time ;  but  there  is  eminent  despatch  in  young 

C31S) 


ON    THE    MOUNTAIN.  313 

spirits,  and  Milly  got  far  enough  along  with  her  in- 
quiries to  propose  a  walk  up  the  mountain. 

"  Up  the  mountain  ?  "  said  Moll.     "  Where's  that  ?  " 

"  Up  that  high  place  yonder,"  replied  she,  pointing  in 
the  direction  of  the  acclivity. 

"  Call  that  a  mountain  ?  Yes,  I'll  go.  What's  up 
there  ?  snakes  and  things  ?  " 

Her  companion  laughed,  and  told  her,  not  snakes,  but 
fiOes. 

"  Folks  !  "  exclaimed  she.     "  What,  two-legged  ?  " 

"  All  but  the  cat,"  said  Milly. 

"  What  do  they  want  to  live  'way  up  there  for  ? 
Why,  it's  most  up  to  the  sky  !  I  guess  they  don't  want 
for  air,  up  there,"  she  added ;  "  nor  thunder  an'  lightnin', 
neither ! " 

Down  from  the  wall,  therefore,  they  jumped,  —  Moll, 
as  usual,  much  the  more  nimble  of  the  two,  —  and  start- 
ed off  across  the  fields.  The  sun  had  long  ago  dried 
the  dew ;  and  daisies  and  buttercups  begemmed  all  the 
plain.  Two  or  three  times  they  leaped  across  the  nar- 
row bed  of  the  brook,  as  it  wound  hither  and  thither, 
and  doubled  and  turned  on  its  purposeless  course,  its 
gay  prattle  and  laughter  filling  their  hearts  with  nothing 
but  melody. 

When  they  fairly  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
they  sat  down  to  rest  themselves.  Milly's  cheeks  were 
rosy  red,  and  the  eyes  of  Snarly  Moll  were  swimming 
with  pleasure.  They  sat  and  gathered  the  pale  wild 
flowers  that  grew  at  their  feet,  and  made  them  into 
bunches  for  the  occupants  of  the  hut. 

"  Who  is't  that  lives  there  ? "  said  Moll.  "  You 
haven't  told  me.  Black,  or  white  ?  " 

"  The  man  is  tanned  some,  I  should  think,"  answered 
the  other. 

27 


314  DOVECOTE. 

"  And  what  color's  the  woman  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  any  woman." 

"  Ain't  none  !     Does  the  man  live  alone  ? " 

"  No." 

"  What  then  ?  Why  don't  you  tell  ?  I  guess  it's 
some  evil  sperrit  up  there,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it's  a  girl,  just  like  you  and  me." 

"  A  girl !     And  who  else  ?  " 

"  Nobody  but  a  cat." 

"  A  girl  like  us  live  up  there  alone  !  " 

Moll  might  well  express  her  astonishment. 

"  Yes ;  only  she,  and  her  grandfather,  and  the  cat 
You  don't  know  what  a  queer  place  it  is.  And  such 
queer  folks,  too  !  though  I  Like  the  girl  a  good  deal." 

"  What's  her  name  ?  " 

"  Daisy." 

"  That's  an  odd  name,  now,  ain't  it?  Who  ever 
heerd  the  like  of  it  ?  Daisy !  How  odd  it  sounds  ! 
Why,  she  was  named  after  that  flower  that  grows  over 
in  the  medder  there  !  " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Milly.     "  Any  body  would." 

"  But  was  she  born  up  here  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  asked  her.  But  I  guess  not. 
People  say  she  came  here  years  ago,  though." 

"  And  didn't  her  mother  come  with  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     She  never  told  me  much." 

As  soon  as  they  were  refreshed  they  rose  to  their  feet 
again,  and  began  the  ascent.  Milly  managed  to  go 
along  with  much  more  than  her  accustomed  ease,  owing, 
probably,  to  her  familiarity  with  the  windings  of  the 
path,  and,  perhaps,  in  some  degree,  to  the  ambition  she 
had  in  being  able  to  show  her  former  friend  an  object 
so  worthy  of  her  interest  as  the  hut  of  old  Jarvie. 

They  paused  a  moment  when  they  reached  the  natu- 


ON    THE    MOUNTAIN.  3L5 

ral  shelf  on  which  the  hut  stood,  Moll  giving  herself  up 
to  the  contemplation  of  the  scenery. 

"  It's  an  odd  place  for  a  hut,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  soon  as  she  turned  round  to  the  dwelling 
again. 

Milly  beckoned  her  on,  and  a  few  steps  brought  them 
to  the  door.  So  quiet  had  been  their  approach,  the  in- 
mates of  the  hut  heard  nothing  of  it,  and  received  no 
other  warning  than  that  which  the  bristling  back  of  the 
black  cat  sufficed  to  give. 

Daisy  was  sitting  on  the  bench,  engaged  in  weaving 
together  long  strips  of  striped  wild  grass.  She  imme- 
diately turned  round  and  recognized  Milly,  uttering  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  and  delight. 

The  moment,  however,  she  saw  another  hi  her  com- 
pany, her  countenance  perceptibly  fell.  The  eagerness 
of  her  welcome  was  half  gone. 

But  Milly  was  much  too  intent  on  another  object  of 
interest  to  observe  this  sudden  change  in  Daisy's  ex- 
pression ;  for  over  in  a  back  corner,  seated  on  one  end 
of  the  low  bench  he  had  partly  drawn  to  that  locality, 
sat  Adam  Drowne.  Not  till  Daisy  spoke  did  he  look 
up  to  see  who  had  come. 

Moll  was  close  behind  her  conductress,  and  stood  on 
the  threshold  at  nearly  the  same  moment.  As  soon, 
therefore,  as  Adam  spied  Milly,  he  spied  her  likewise. 

His  eye  glared,  and  his  muscles  twitched  convulsive- 
ly. It  was  a  little  time  before  he  could  speak  at  all. 
When  he  did  speak,  his  first  words  were,  — 

"  Snarly  Moll !  " 

This  seemed  the  harmless  explosion  of  all  his  aston- 
ishment. 

The  girl  was  nearly  as  much  excited  as  himself 
to  meet  him  under  such  unexpected  circumstances. 


316  DOVECOTE. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  "  asked  Adam,  coming  a 
little  to  himself. 

"  Afoot,"  answered  she,  with  her  usual  roguery. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  faintly  assented  he,  wagging  his  head. 
"  Just  the  same  girl  you  always  was,  I  see  !  No  change 
yet !  And  Milly,  did  you  bring  her  up  here  ?  " 

She  told  him  that  she  did. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from,  Moll  ? "  he  asked  her. 
"  I  declare,  I'd  never  thought  o'  seein'  you  here  !  " 

"  Nor  I  you,  either,"  said  Moll. 

"  It's  astonishin',  really.     D'ye  come  from  Byeboro'  ? " 

"  Not  lately." 

"  You  run  away,  too  !  "  exclaimed  he. 

"  I  couldn't  stay  after  you  and  Milly  come  ;  'twas  too 
lonesome." 

"  But  what  did  they  say  of  her  goin'  ?  Did  they  think 
'twas  one  o'  the  oddest  things  they'd  ever  heerd  of? 
Did  they  say  I  had  any  thing  to  do  about  it  ?  What 
did  they  say,  Moll  ?  " 

She  told  him,  as  nearly  as  she  could,  exactly  what 
they  did  say. 

"  As  if  I  could  have  staid  and  seen  that  child  suffer 
there  so  !  I'd  worked  my  fingers  off  to  support  her 
first !  "  said  he. 

"  So  would  I,"  added  Moll. 

"  Would  ye  ?  "  —  Adam  looked  very  much  pleased,  — 
"  would  ye  ?  Well,  now,  you're  after  my  own  heart. 
I'm  glad  enough  to  hear  you  say  such  a  thing.  But  the 
Byeboro'  poorhouse  is  gone  ;  don't  let's  think  of  it  any 
more.  Where  do  you  live  now,  Moll  ?  " 

Adam  certainly  had  grown  more  inquisitive  and  more 
talkative  than  Moll,  or  any  one  else,  had  known  him  to 
be  before.  It  seemed  to  have  changed  his  nature,  in  a 
measure,  to  get  free  from  the  influences  of  Byeboro'. 


ON    THE    MOUNTAIN.  317 

"  I  live  in  the  city,"  answered  Moll.  "  Where  do 
you  ? " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  smiled. 

"  It's  hard  to  tell,"  said  he.  "  I  live  wherever  I  hap- 
pen to  be.  I  live  here  now." 

"  But  ain't  you  never  goin'  back  to  Byeboro'  agin  ?  " 

"  Never  !     It's  a  good  ways  off,  you  know,  too." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Moll.  "  /  never  want  to  see  the 
place  agin ! " 

"  Then  you  run  away  ?  "  pursued  Adam. 

"  I  s'pose  I  did.  I  don'Uknow.  Any  how,  I  was  glad 
enough  to  git  away." 

"  And  you  never  have  seen  any  of  'em  since  ?  " 

"  None  but  Milly  and  you." 

"  Where  did  you  find  her  ?  Did  you  know  she  lived 
here  at  Dovecote  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  nothin'  about  it  till  I  come  and  found 
her  here.  I  guess  I  was  started  to  see  her  sweet  face 
agin ! " 

"  Same  with  myself,  too.  But  you  look  better  than 
you  used  to." 

"  I  guess  I  feel  some  better,  too." 

"  Nothing  like  freedom,  is  there,  Moll  ?  Well,  well,  I 
mean  to  git  as  much  o'  that  myself  as  I  can.  I've  al- 
ways had  it,  in  a  measure ;  but  I'll  have  more  now. 
P'raps  I'll  come  and  see  you  in  the  city  before  long. 
Should  you  like  to  have  me  ?  " 

"  You  can't  find  the  way,"  answered  Moll.  "  Was 
you  ever  there  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  was  there,  Moll.  I  don't  know  a  soul 
there  but  yourself.  Do  you  like  it  all  the  time  ?  Don't 
you  never  feel  homesick,  nor  nothing  o'  that  kind  ? " 

"  Homesick  for  what  ?  For  old  Byeboro'  ?  I  don't 
27* 


318  DOVECOTE. 

know  where  my  home  is,  unless  it's  where  I'm  livin' 
now." 

"  Sure  enough ;  nor  I  either.  I  hope  you've  got  a 
good  one." 

The  girls  at  that  moment  looked  up.  Jarvie  Thatch 
stood  in  the  door. 

He  run  his  eyes  quickly  about  the  apartment,  and, 
seeing  another  little  stranger  there,  said  to  Daisy,  — 

"  Who's  that,  now  ?  " 

Daisy  could  not  tell  him ;  so  she  silently  shook  her 
head. 

"  You  here  agin ! "  exclaimed  he,  bending  his  eyes 
upon  old  Adam,  who  still  sat  with  his  arms  tightly  fold- 
ed about  him. 

"  Yes,  I'm  here  again,"  quietly  answered  Adam,  not 
lifting  his  eyes  from  the  floor. 

"  And  always  here  !  "  added  Jarvie. 

"  There's  an  old  mem'ry  that  draws  me,"  said  he.  "  I 
can't  help  it  at  all.  I  wish  I  had  other  things  to  do  than 
jest  to  follow  up  this  mem'ry.  It  carries  me  all  round 
the  world.  It  keeps  me  going,  and  keeps  me  wretched. 
But  I  can't  help  it  at  all." 

Jarvie  knew  well  enough  what  he  meant.  He  fetched 
a  long  sigh,  dropping  the  conversation  where  it  was. 

As  soon  as  the  opportunity  offered,  Milly  withdrew 
with  her  friend  Snarly  Moll,  Daisy  following  after  at  a 
little  distance.  In  the  woods  there  was  time  for  all  to 
become  better  acquainted ;  and  it  was  a  long  hour  that 
they  sat  in  the  heart  of  the  forenoon  shadows,  talking 
on  whatever  happened  to  come  uppermost  in  their 
thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

A  WALK  AKD  A  TALK. 

ALL  things,  whether  pleasant  or  unpleasant,  have  an 
end ;  and  so  had  the  visit  of  Mrs.  Trevor.  She  had  already 
passed  quite  a  week  at  Dovecote,  in  which  time  we  all 
became  much  attached  to  her  for  her  unostentatious 
kindness,  and  for  the  general  happiness  she  helped 
diffuse  amongst  us. 

She  seemed  especially  interested  in  Milly  and  in  her 
history.  Undoubtedly  the  sudden  renewal  of  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Moll  led  to  the  interest,  and  then  it 
grew  with  subsequent  investigation  and  inquiry.  B efore 
she  took  her  leave,  she  had  exacted  a  promise  from 
Miss  Nancy  to  bring  the  child  to  town  with  her  during 
the  coming  autumn,  and  Moll  had  given  abundant  ex- 
pression to  her  delight  at  the  thought  of  such  a  reunion. 

"  Won't  we  have  fun,  Milly  ? "  said  she,  her  face  alive 
with  her  feelings.  "  Won't  we  talk  lots,  all  about  the 
old  Byeboro'  home?  Won't  we  go  see  Miss  Stokes, 
too,  hey?  And  won't  she  be  glad  to  see  you  agin?  O 
Milly  !  Milly !  to  think  we  got  acquainted  as  we  did ! 
How  odd  it  all  is  to  me ! " 

Before  she  climbed  into  the  wagon  she  threw  her  arms 
about  Milly,  and  the  tears  stood  plentifully  in  her  eyes. 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  come,  won't  ye  ? "  were  the  last 
words  she  could  make  audible,  as  they  were  driven  out 
of  sight. 

After  they  had  gone,  Miss  Nancy  took  Milly  with  her 

(319) 


'320  DOVECOTE. 

to  her  own  room,  and  there  talked  with  her  pleasantly 
about  her  friend  Mrs.  Trevor,  and  about  Moll,  and  their 
former  acquaintance ;  laboring  to  impress  her  chiefly  with 
the  sense  of  gratitude  she  should  have  for  her  good  for- 
tune at  last ;  a  matter,  in  truth,  about  which  a  child  like 
Milly  needed  but  a  trifling  reminder. 

A  few  days  afterwards  Milly  again  found  Daisy  across 
the  meadows,  bareheaded,  and  gathering  the  wild  flow- 
ers much  after  her  old  way. 

"  You've  come  at  a  good  time,"  said  Daisy.  "  I  want- 
ed to  see  you." 

"  What  for  ? "  asked  the  child. 

"  O,  'cause ;  I  wanted  to  take  a  walk,  you  know." 

"  But  you  do  that  every  day." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  wanted  to  have  a  talk,  too." 

Milly  was  going  to  sit  down  on  a  large  stone  that 
offered  her  rest. 

"  Don't  set  down ! "  said  Daisy.     "  Let's  go  on !  " 

"Where?" 

"  Any  where.  In  the  woods,  out  o'  this  sun.  Let's 
go  take  a  kind  of  a  ramble,  you  know.  There's  flowers 
enough,  and  there's  good  places  enough  to  pick  'em.  I 
see  cords  o'  honeysuckles  as  I  come  down  the  moun- 
tain; but  they  were  up  among  the  rocks,  and  in  the 
ledges,  and  I  didn't  hardly  dare  to  climb." 

Milly  was  nowise  averse  to  the  recreation  proposed, 
and  accordingly  went  along  with  her.  They  wound 
slowly  round  the  base  of  the  mountain,  where  the  trees 
were  few  and  scattered,  and  the  wild  vines  crept  over 
trunks,  and  rocks,  and  mounds.  Keeping  in  sight  of  an 
ancient  woodman's  road  that  tracked  its  way  faintly  into 
the  forest,  they  skirted  the  woodland  first,  and  then 
plunged  directly  into  its  shadowing  gloom. 

Two  girls  in  a  forest,  young,  and  joyous,  and  full  of 


A    WALK    AND    A    TALK.  321 

wonder,  is  a  sight  any  eye,  with  the  least  attraction  for 
picturesqueness,  might  well  covet.  They  looked  like 
some  graceful  deities  of  the  woodland.  Their  soft  voices 
broke  among  the  ancient  forest  aisles  like  the  low  chant- 
ing of  nuns  in  a  cathedral.  Their  forms  seemed  veiy 
slight  and  airy,  as  they  flitted  from  a  spot  of  sunshine  to 
a  spot  of  shadow,  and  then  to  the  glimmering  sunshine 
again ;  and  one  might,  with  little  tendency  to  romantic 
feelings,  have  taken  them  for  what  they  were  not. 

Here  and  there  they  went  through  the  forest  mazes, 
following  nothing  but  their  own  wayward  fancies.  Now 
they  stopped  to  pick  a  brilliant  flower,  and  now  to 
examine  the  glittering  scales  on  a  rock.  At  one  mo- 
ment they  kneeled  on  the  soft  and  dark  mosses  that 
served  them  in  the  stead  of  a. carpet;  and  at  another  they 
were  gazing  up  into  the  dark  and  dense  boughs  of  some 
fine  forest  ash,  garlanded  as  it  was  with  luxuriant  vines 
and  creepers.  Nothing  could  be  conceived  more 
dreamy  in  its  tone  than  the  sight  of  these  young  chil- 
dren. 

At  length  they  grew  tired.  Their  feet  followed  each 
other  but  slowly,  and  with  obvious  effort. 

"  Let's  set  down  now,"  proposed  Daisy. 

"  Where  is  there  a  good  place  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  Not  here,"  said  Daisy ;  "  but  I  guess  I  can  find  one 
up  yonder.  There's  a  clearing  like  up  there. " 

So  they  tugged  on  a  little  farther,  holding  on  by  the 
stems  of  the  trees,  and  by  roots,  and  shrubs,  and  vines. 
Sometimes  they  went  two  steps  backward  for  a  single 
one  forward;  but  that  gave  them  no  cause  of  despair. 
They  reached  the  spot  they  desired  at  length,  quite 
spent  with  fatigue,  and  all  out  of  breath,  and  sat  down 
upon  a  decaying  log  that  offered  itself  for  their  ease 

"  What  a  view ! "  said  Daisy,  pointing  her  companion 
off  over  the  distant  meadows  and  plains. 


322  DOVECOTE. 

Milly's  eyes  followed  her  direction,  and  her  whole 
soul  seemed  immediately  absorbed  with  the  sight 
"  What  a  view,  sure  enough ! "  .thought  she. 

There  lay  a  charming  landscape,  spread  out  in  all  its 
beauty  before  her.  A  feeling  flashed  over  her,  that  it 
seemed  wasted  when  so  few  took  the  pains  to  enjoy  it. 
Yet  it  was  always  there  at  this  particular  season,  just  so 
rich,  and  just  so  thickly  crowded  with  beauty. 

In  the  plain  slept  the  village  of  Kirkwood,  its  quiet 
inhabitants  raising  no  line  of  dust  along  their  street  to 
tell  that  human  beings  labored  and  trafficked  there. 
The  roofs  and  the  chimneys  lay  half  hidden  in  the 
foliage ;  and  the  smokes  that  went  up  curled  so  faintly 
as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible.  Beyond  stretched  the 
broad,  blue  sky,  against  whose  lower  rim  the  horizon 
leaned,  and  upon  which  objects  were  pencilled  with 
wonderful  exactitude. 

The  crops  looked  charmingly  in  the  sunlight,  the  vege- 
tables showing  the  deeper  colors,  and  the  grasses  and 
grains  just  beginning  to  glint  with  their  lighter  shades 
in  the  drifting  breezes.  The  trees  wore  their  densest 
foliage  and  stood  like  plumed  sentries,  dotting  the 
plains.  There  was  nothing  but  beauty  on  all  sides. 
The  child  took  it  into  her  eyes,  and  absorbed  it  into  her 
soul.  She  sat  there  like  one  bewildered ;  and  only  the 
sight  of  her  intoxication  had  the  effect  to  bind  Daisy 
with  an  influence  but  little  dissimilar. 

In  the  midst  of  this  thoughtful  silence  a  step  was 
suddenly  heard  from  the  thicket  beyond.  The  parting 
of  boughs  betrayed  the  approach  of  some  one ;  and  both 
the  girls  turned  round  to  look.  Milly  was  the  most 
startled. 

"  It's  granf  ther,  I  guess,"  said  Daisy,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No,"  replied  Milly,  looking  a  moment  longer; "  it's  Mr 


A    WALK    AND    A    TALK.  323 

Brimmer  !  It's  the  minister  !  "  And  she  jumped  to  her 
feet,  and  clapped  her  hands  for  delight. 

He  came  pat  upon  them. 

"  Milly !  "  he  exclaimed,  for  the  first  time  catching  a 
view  of  her,  "  you  started  me.  I  didn't  know  that  you 
were  here.  And  who  is  this  other  little  girl  here  with 
you  ? " 

"  That's  Daisy,"  answered  the  child,  Daisy  herself 
casting  her  eyes  downward. 

"  Daisy  ?     The  girl  that  lives  in  the  hut  ?  " 

She  told  him  it  was. 

Mr.  Brimmer  thereupon  sat  down  beside  them.  He 
took  the  flowers  Milly  had  gathered,  and  looked  at  them 
every  one,  calling  them  severally  by  their  proper  names. 
He  asked  where  she  had  gathered  them  all,  and  how 
long  it  took  her,  and  if  she  understood  their  language. 

She  had  not  heard  before  that  flowers  had  language. 

So  he  began  to  explain  it  to  her,  and  to  Daisy  as 
well,  talking  of  their  various  expressions,  derivable  in 
some  cases  from  their  shapes,  and  in  others  from  their 
colors,  and  in  others  still  from  then:  names. 

Then  he  talked,  in  his  extremely  pleasant  and  instruc- 
tive way,  of  the  landscape,  pointing  out  colors  and  con- 
trasts in  the  distance  that  their  inexperienced  eyes  had 
never  seen  before  ;  dwelling  on  the  benevolence  of  the 
great  Author,  who  has  made  his  creation  for  beauty  as 
well  as  for  use ;  and  lifting  up  their  youthful  minds, 
imperceptibly  almost,  as  by  some  silver  cord,  to  the 
heaven  that  was  above  all. 

They  thought  they  could  have  sat  and  heard  him 
thus  go  on  for  hours,  so  mild  were  his  words,  so  genial 
seemed  his  sympathies.  But  he  was  warned  already 
of  the  necessity  of  his  departure,  observing  that  he  had 
only  come  for  a  climb  on  the  mountain,  and  must  be 


324  DOVECOTE. 

home  again.  But  he  promised  Daisy  that  he  would  one 
day  visit  the  hut ;  and  made  her  promise,  too,  that,  if  he 
could  break  down  the  prejudices  of  her  grandfather,  he 
would  allow  her  to  come  to  meeting  every  Sunday. 

At  that  place  Daisy  took  her  leave,  moving  off  into 
the  wood.  Mr.  Brimmer  took  Milly  by  the  hand,  and 
led  her  gently  down  among  the  rocks  and  trees,  telling 
her  all  manner  of  pleasant  things  as  they  went  along, 
and  asking  quite  as  much  about  her  friend  Daisy  ;  and 
it  was  getting  really  late  —  for  Milly,  at  least  —  when 
they  crossed  the  old  meadow  below  and  finally  reached 
the  long  avenue  that  conducted  to  the  homestead. 

Milly  felt  that  the  day  had  been  another  among  the 
happy  ones  she  was  now  notching  so  steadily  on  her 
calendar. 


CHAPTER    XLVIL 

A  VISIT  FROM  THE  DOCTOR. 

BUT  no  one's  happiness  is  perpetual.  No  living  per- 
son holds  a  lease  of  health  or  a  stable  guaranty  against 
disease  and  trouble. 

In  little  less  than  a  week  Milly  was  prostrate.  At 
first,  and  not  long  after  her  unusual  exertion  in  climbing 
among  the  woods,  it  was  but  a  trifling  complaint  of  the 
strange  feeling  in  her  head,  of  excessive  weariness  in 
her  limbs,  and  of  other  unpleasant  symptoms  of  that 
nature.  No  one  was  led  to  suppose  any  thing  serious 
threatened ;  as,  at  that  time,  there  did  not 

But  day  by  day  the  trouble  became  more  fixed,  and 
assumed  decided  shape  and  form.  A  little  after  she 
was  obliged  to  sit  in  the  great  easy  chair,  braced  and 
bolstered  by  pillows.  And  her  face  was  very  destitute 
of  color,  and  her  eyes  looked  expressionless  and  heavy, 
and  her  little  white  hands  hung  without  any  strength 
over  the  ends  of  the  chair  arms. 

"  Where  do  you  feel  worst  ?  "  Miss  Nancy  would  ask 
her. 

"  O,  every  where  —  all  over  !  I'm  so  weak  !  I'm  so 
sick  !  "  she  would  answer,  while  her  beautiful  blue  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

Her  tears,  somehow,  never  failed  to  bring  them  into 
the  eyes  of  all  the  rest  of  us,  Miss  Nancy  not  excepted. 
She  looked  so  little  like  a  mortal  all  the  time,  and  so 
much  like  an  angel. 

28  (^ 


326  DOVECOTE. 

"  I  think  of  mother  so  much !  "  she  would  say  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

No  one  had  a  reply  for  this.  It  was  a  subject  none 
could  venture  to  approach. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  doctor  ?  "  she  was  asked, 
one  day,  when  her  symptoms  grew  more  threatening. 

'•  Will  he  do  me  good  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  We  hope  so,"  said  my  mother  and  Miss  Nancy  to- 
gether. "  He  will,  if  any  body  can." 

Still  she  doubted,  and  shook  her  head  rather  despond- 
ingly,  as  if  it  was  to  but  little  purpose. 

Never  seemed  her  face  so  radiant  to  us  as  after  dis- 
ease had  fastened  itself  upon  her.  There  was  such  a 
strange,  an  unearthly,  look  in  her  eyes,  we  almost  feared 
to  let  our  gaze  rest  upon  them.  They  betrayed  the 
anxiety  of  her  thoughts,  as  well  as  the  deep  tenderness 
of  her  feelings. 

The  village  doctor  came.  His  narrow  carriage  looked 
ominous  to  us  all.  There  seemed  something  unnatural 
in  his  being  called  for  Milly.  If  he  had  come  to  see 
any  one  of  the  rest,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  its  being 
received  as  all  in  the  due  course  of  things ;  but  with 
our  Milly  it  was  different.  And  yet  none  could  tell 
how  or  why. 

He  drew  his  chair  up  beside  her  great  chair,  and  took 
one  of  her  hands  that  depended  from  the  chair  arm  into 
his  own.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  tried  to  make  it  ap- 
pear to  her  as  if  he  was  simply  glad  to  see  her  and 
would  shake  her  by  the  hand.  So  he  entered  on  pleas- 
ant conversation. 

"  This  is  the  same  little  girl  I  see  at  meeting,  isn't 
it  ? "  he  asked  her. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  faintly  answered  Milly. 

She  tried   to   smile   as   she   spoke ;   but  the   smile 


A    VISIT    FROM    THE    DOCTOR.  327 

died  with  the  effort,  and  her  face  seemed  sadder  than 
ever. 

"But  how  happens  it  that  she  is  sick  to-day?"  he 
continued,  still  keeping  up  his  calm  and  pleasing  tone 
of  voice.  "  Has  she  been  eating  something  she 
shouldn't  ?  " 

Miss  Nancy  answered  for  her,  that  she  was  not  well 
enough  to  eat  any  thing. 

"  Then  she's  taken  sudden  cold,  I  guess,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  I'm  sorry,  sorry  !  " 

He  shook  his  head  as  he  repeated  the  word  "  sorry ; " 
and  Milly's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  now,  he  preserved  silence.  He 
was  counting  her  puke,  though  she  was  the  last  one  to 
suspect  that  such  was  his  design  when  he  first  took  her 
hand.  Its  beating  was  exceedingly  rapid.  It  troubled 
him  so  much  to  number  the  strokes,  that  he  finally  took 
out  his  great  silver  watch,  the  more  easily  to  notch  off  a 
minute  with  the  help  of  that. 

He  was  not  a  little  startled  himself  at  the  alarming 
nature  of  the  symptoms.  She  showed  her  tongue  in 
obedience  to  his  request.  He  looked  steadily,  and  his 
opinion  was  settled.  It  was  easy  to  see,  even  then, 
that  he  considered  her  a  very  sick  child. 

After  a  brief  time,  he  rose  from  his  seat  and 
walked  slowly  across  the  room  in  the  direction  of  the 
window. 

He  motioned  Miss  Nancy  towards  him,  and  for  many 
minutes  continued  holding  a  consultation  with  her.. 
He  took  papers  from  his  little  leathern  bag,  and  divided 
and  subdivided  powders,  folding  them  again  in  smaller 
papers.  Then  there  were  a  great  many  directions  to 
give  respecting  the^  particular  modes  of  treatment  that 
should  be  followed,  and  cautions  to  be  added,  and 


328  DOVECOTE. 

iopes  to  be  expressed,  after  that,  for  her  speedy 
recovery. 

He  went  away ;  and  Milly's  countenance  fell  more 
than  ever. 

"  I  don't  like  to  take  medicines,"  she  said  to  Miss 
Nancy,  though  in  no  tone  of  complaint. 

"  But  when  the  doctor  says  they  will  do  you  so  much 
good ;  and  you'll  get  entirely  well,"  returned  Miss 
Nancy. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  If  it  was  best, 
she  was  not  the  one  to  offer  opposition.  So  the  medi- 
cines were  bravely  swallowed,  and  all  the  doctor's  di- 
rections obeyed  to  the  letter. 

Her  days  seemed  very  long  to  her,  and  she  told  of 
her  increasing  weariness  and  exhaustion.  We  watched 
her  anxiously,  her  pale  face  buried  in  the  white  pillows, 
itself  even  whiter  than  they.  Whenever  we  came  into 
the  room  she  had  something  pleasant  to  say,  and  many 
questions  to  ask  about  the  fields,  and  the  garden,  and 
the  flowers. 

She  seemed  to  like  to  talk,  above  all,  about  her  dead 
mother ;  and  she  kept  the  attention  of  Miss  Nancy  en- 
chained by  the  hour  with  her  childlike  sayings. 

"  She  seems  to  be  before  me  now,"  she  would  say, 
"  I  think  of  her  so  much !  " 

"  But  you  always  have,  haven't  you,  since  she  died  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  feel  so  different  about  her  now." 

"  Well,  how  different,  my  child  ?  Does  she  seem  any 
more  dear  to  you  than  she  used  to  ?  " 

"  She  seems  nearer"  answered  Milly ;  and  lost  her- 
self in  a  brief  instant  of  reflection. 

"  She  loved  you,  Milly,"  said  Miss  Nancy ;  "  and  we 
have  tried  to  take  her  place  to  you." 

"  I  love  you,  Miss  Nancy.     I  love  you  all.     How  can 


A    VISIT    FROM    THE    DOCTOR.  329 

I  help  it  ?  You  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  and  done  so 
much  for  me." 

"  We  are  glad  to  know  it  has  been  done  for  one  so 
deserving.  That  is  a  great  satisfaction,  my  child." 

"  I  dream  so  much  of  my  mother,"  continued  Milly. 

"  What  do  you  dream  about  her  ? "  asked  Miss 
Nancy,  smoothing  down  the  hair  over  her  forehead,  and 
looking  into  her  eyes  with  ill-disguised  emotion. 

"  O,"  said  Milly,  "  I  see  her  face  before  me  so  plain ; 
and  she  seems  to  have  the  same  smile  on  it  I  remem- 
ber so  well ;  and  she  holds  out  her  hand  to  me,  and 
beckons  me  to  her,  too.  I  hear  her  speak  to  me  just  as 
she  used  to ;  and  her  voice  is  so  very  pleasant  in  my 
ears.  She  tells  me  how  much  she  thinks  of  me  still, 
and  how  closely  she  watches  over  me,  and  what  a  hope 
she  has  that  I  shall  see  her  again  before  long." 

"  But  this  is  only  dreaming,  you  know,  Milly  !  " 

"  It's  so  pleasant  for  me,  Miss  Nancy,  to  dream  such 
things." 

"  You  shouldn't  suffer  them,  however,  to  influence 
you  so  much  as  to  make  you  unhappy.  What  you 
dream  in  your  sleep  has  nothing  to  do  with  you  when 
awake." 

"  It  isn't  wrong  to  think  so  much  of  these  things,  is  it, 
Miss  Nancy  ? " 

"  O,  no,  my  child ;  but  then  it's  not  for  your  good  to 
think  so  much  of  them  as  to  make  you  unhappy." 

"  Do  you  think  they  do  make  me  so  ?  "  asked  the 
chiKL 

"  You  sometimes  make  me  think  they  do.  Isn't  it 
so?" 

"  They  make  me  the  happiest  I  can  be.  They  bring 
up  the  old  times  to  me  again,  and  I  think  of  what  we 
once  suffered,  and  how  much  I  enjoy  now.  O,  I  only 
28* 


330  DOVECOTE. 

wish  mother  could  have  had  all  this  pleasure  with 
me!" 

"  It  was  meant  for  your  best  good,  Milly  ;  you  must 
think  of  that." 

"  Indeed  I  do,  Miss  Nancy.  I  think  of  it  all  the  time ; 
and  I  say  to  myself, '  How  thankful  I  should  be  for  the 
good  fortune  and  the  kind  friends  that  have  been  given 
to  me  ! '  I  try  all  the  time  to  be  thankful,  Miss  Nancy ; 
but  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  my  mother,  too." 

"  No,  you  should  bear  her  ever  in  mind.  She  nur- 
tured you  when  you  were  a  helpless  infant,  and  it  is  to 
her  that  you  owe  a  debt  of  large  gratitude.  None  of  us 
can  ever  hope  to  repay  our  mothers  for  their  care." 

"  And  it's  so  pleasant  for  me  to  think  of  her,  too,"  con- 
tinued the  child,  "  though  I  look  the  saddest  when  I  am 
doing  it.  I  seem  to  be  talking  with  her  again,  just  as  I 
used  to  when  we  were  so  poor,  and  lived  in  that  single 
room,  in  the  city.  And  her  face  has  just  the  same  look 
for  me,  and  just  the  same  smiles.  I  love  to  think  of  her 
so  much.  How  can  I  help  it,  Miss  Nancy  ?  " 

"  You  cannot,  my  dear,"  said  she. 

The  eyes  of  both  of  them  were  suffused  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII 

THE  FAITH  OF  A  CHILD. 

SHE  grew  worse  rather  than  better,  and  soon  the 
great  easy  chair  was  vacant  altogether. 

The  little  patient  was  stretched  on  the  bed. 

She  had  been  placed  in  Miss  Nancy's  chamber, 
where,  rapidly  as  her  strength  diminished,  she  still 
cherished  her  old  fondness  for  the  flowers,  and  the 
leaves,  and  the  grass.  Every  day  we  gathered  the 
most  brilliant  wild  flowers  that  could  be  found  in  all  the 
meadows  and  on  all  the  hillsides,  and,  mingling  their 
colors  with  those  of  the  garden  blossoms,  —  roses,  and 
honeysuckles,  and  border  blossoms,  —  we  made  them 
all  up  in  luxuriant  bunches,  and  carried  them  into  her 
chamber. 

Her  sick  face  lighted  up  with  the  sight  of  them  at 
once.  She  would  put  out  her  hand,  and  ask  to  take  a 
bunch  into  it  herself.  And  then  she  carried  them  to  her 
face,  snufling  up  their  choice  fragrance  with  manifest 
delight. 

But  how  very  pale,  beside  those  deep-red  roses, 
looked  her  face  !  and  how  dim  seemed  her  eyes,  com- 
pared with  the  bright  tints  that  nestled  among  the 
flowers  ! 

She  had  many  questions  to  ask  about  the  school  and 
the  old  playmates,  feeling  already  as  if  she  had  long 
been  estranged  from  them.  Her  thoughts  ran  on  all 
those  in  the  village  whom  she  knew,  of  whom  she  had 

(331) 


332  DOVECOTE. 

something  at  various  times  to  say.  Her  mind  was  very 
clear,  and  her  memory  more  than  ever  alive.  She  talked 
as  a  child  of  her  years  was  not  expected  to  talk,  aston- 
ishing those  much  older  and  of  more  matured  charac- 
ters than  herself. 

Every  morning  she  asked  to  have  her  chamber  win- 
dow opened,  and  to  be  braced  in  her  bed  with  pillows, 
that  she  might  drink  in  the  glory  of  the  day.  Her  eyes 
wandered  over  the  limited  landscape,  now  upon  the  dense 
masses  of  foliage  that  hung  upon  the  trees,  and  now 
upon  the  gray  and  mossy  rocks  that  lay  scattered  here 
and  there,  and  now  upon  the  green  lawn  that  stretched 
itself,  carpet-like,  beyond  the  house.  She  held  the  flow- 
ers in  her  hand,  alternately  admiring  them  and  the  view 
through  the  window. 

And  again,  at  evening,  she  went  through  the  same 
pleasant  exercise  ;  for  'exercise  it  was,  not  less  to  her 
eyes  than  to  her  feelings.  The  rich  tints  of  the  sunset ; 
the  golden  hues  of  the  foliage ;  the  sombre  shadows,  \ 
shrinking  away  within  the  trees,  as  if  they  were  yet  a 
little  too  fast  in  then:  approaches ;  the  gilded  mosses  that 
clung  to  the  rocks ;  the  distant  walls  and  fences ;  and  the 
lanes,  leading  away  through  the  meadows  and  pastures, — 
all  these  crowded  on  her  brain  with  constantly  increas- 
ing pleasure,  while  yet  they  tinged  her  evening  thoughts 
with  sadness. 

At  this  particular  part  of  the  day  it  was  that  she  de- 
lighted to  let  out  her  heart  in  conversation.  She  was 
free  to  tell  all  her  feelings,  and  often  expressed  them  in 
a  style  of  frankness  and  tenderness  that  failed  not  to 
moisten  the  eyes  ofvthose  who  heard  her. 

One  evening,  while  she  was  in  just  this  mood,  the 
minister  came  into  the  room,  following  Miss  Nancy. 
She  turned  her  eyes  round  slowly,  and  caught  sight  of 
his  face.  Immediately  her  own  lighted  up  with  joy. 


THE    FAITH    OF    A    CHILD.  333 

"  Mr.  Brimmer,  Milly,"  said  Miss  Nancy.  "  He  has 
come  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

The  good  minister  sat  down  by  her  bedside,  and  took 
one  of  her  white  frail  hands  within  both  his  own.  His 
emotion  was  visible  enough,  as  he  sat  down  beside  such 
an  innocent,  with  the  feeling  so  heavy  upon  him  that 
she  could  not  be  much  longer  for  earth. 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-night,  Milly  ?  "  he  asked  her,  his 
voice  betraying  his  deep  feeling. 

"  O,  I'm  so  happy ! "  exclaimed  the  child.  "  I  love 
so  much  to  see  those  evening  clouds !  They  are  full  of 
pleasant  dreams ! " 

"  They  tell  me  you  are  very  sick,"  said  Mr.  Brimmer. 
"  Do  you  suffer  much,  my  child  ? " 

"  Not  when  I'm  so  happy,"  answered  she.  "  No,  I 
don't  think  I  suffer  any  tiling." 

"  Patience  is  a  great  virtue,"  he  went  on.  "  It  will 
carry  you  safely  through  a  great  many  trials.  But  pa- 
tience cannot  be  truly  patience,  unless  it  proceeds  from 
a  rightly-disposed  heart.  I  trust  you  are  reconciled  to 
whatever  may  be  in  store  for  you,  my  child.  If  it  should 
please  God  to  take  you  to  himself,  you  feel  ready  to  go ; 
do  you  not?" 

"  I  wish  I  was  better,"  said  she,  after  a  moment's 
thoughtfulness. 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  dying? " 

"  I  think  of  it  all  the  time,"  she  answered.  "  I  some- 
times feel  even  glad  to  think  I  may  be  so  near  through." 

"  Do  you  pray  for  a  spirit  to  be  contented  with  what- 
ever may  come,  whether  it- be  life  or  death?  Do  you 
pray  to  have  your  heart  humbled  still  a  thousand  times 
more,  that  the  good  seed  may  take  deeper  root?" 

"  I  love  to  say  my  prayers,"  she  answered.  "  And 
Miss  Nancy  is  so  good  to  pray  with  me,  and  to  talk 


334  DOVECOTE. 

with  me,  too.  I  always  feel  that  my  heart  is  better 
when  she  is  talking  with  me." 

"  And  you  love  your  Savior  with  all  the  love  of 
which  your  heart  is  capable  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Brimmer,"  said  she,  in  great  simplicity, 
"  I  try  to  love  him  more  and  more  every  day." 

"  Well,  that  is  right  That  is  what  you  ought  to  do. 
But  what  do  you  seek  so  much  to  love  him  for?  " 

"  Because  he  has  done  so  much  for  me.  Because  he 
even  died  for  me.  How  can  I  help  loving  him  ?  How 
can  I  help  trying  all  the  time  to  love  him  more?" 

"  You  cannot,  if  you  think  on  what  he  has  done  for 
you  as  you  ought.  Indeed,  the  more  your  mind  is  fixed 
on  him,  the  more  your  heart  will  learn  of  gratitude. 
And  with  gratitude  to  God  comes  deep  piety,  and  trust, 
and  simplicity,  and  humility.  These  all  grow  out  of 
this  one  feeling.  You  are  right,  my  child,  in  cultivating 
it  as  you  do.  Should  you  like  to  have  me  read  a  little 
to  you  from  the  Bible  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  should  like  it  very  much." 

Mr.  Brimmer  thereupon  took  the  Bible  Miss  Nancy 
handed  down  from  the  shelf,  and  opened  at  random. 
His  eye  fell  on  the  eighteenth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew ; 
of  which  he  read  aloud  the  first  half,  containing  the  reply 
of  Jesus  to  the  question  of  his  disciples  — "  Who  is 
greatest  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ? " 

And  afterwards  he  repeated  other  passages  from  memo- 
ry, and  among  them  that  solemn  injunction  from  Ecclesi- 
astes : — 

"  Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy 
youth,  while  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw 
nigh,  when  thou  shall  say,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them ; 

"  While  the  sun,  or  the  light,  or  the  moon,  or  the  stars 
be  not  darkened,  nor  the  clouds  return  after  the  rain." 


nit    FAITH    OF    A    CHILD.  335 

The  words,  as  they  came  from  the  lips  of  the  minis- 
ter, sounded  to  Milly  unusually  full  of  meaning  and  im- 
pressiveness.  She  drank  in  the  syllables  with  delight ; 
and  when,  at  one  time,  he  appeared  to  hesitate,  as  if  he 
might  task  her  little  strength  too  much,  she  earnestly 
begged  him  to  go  on,  telling  him  that  all  this  was  a  very 
great  comfort  to  her. 

So  he  kept  reading,  selecting  passages  every  where 
from  the  good  book  that  is  so  full  of  comfort  for  us  all. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  sun  had  set.  Milly  still 
sat  braced  with  the  pillows,  and  her  hands  were  folded 
calmly  over  her  breast.  Her  eyes  were  closed ;  yet  she 
was  not  sleeping ;  she  was  withdrawing  her  soul  from 
all  outward  influences,  and  in  silence  communing  with 
her  own  peaceful  and  happy  heart. 

"  I  shall  see  my  dear  mother,  too,"  at  length  she  said, 
breaking  the  silence  that  well  nigh  seemed  sacred. 
"  She  will  be  there,  too." 

"  In  heaven,"  said  Mr.  Brimmer,  "  all  friends  in  Jesus 
will  be  reunited  and  made  happy  again.  There  will  be 
no  more  tears  in  that  blessed  place.  The  heart  will 
have  nothing  more  to  wish.  Its  measure  of  bliss  will  be 
full." 

"  Shall  we  know  our  friends  in  heaven  ? "  she  asked 
him. 

"  We  have  every  reason  to  believe  we  shall,"  he  an- 
swered. "  It  is  a  very  consoling  hope,  that  God  allows 
us  to  entertain.  There  will  be  no  more  night  between 
us  there ;  and  all  darkness  will  flee  away." 

"  The  last  thing  my  dear  mother  told  me,  the  night 
before  she  died,"  said  Milly,  "  was,  '  Only  leave  all 
your  trials  with  God,  and  do  your  duty  yourself.  Keep 
my  memory  fresh  in  your  heart.  You  will  never  forget 
your  dear  mother,  will  you,  Milly  ? '  And  from  that  day 


336  DOVECOTE. 

I  never  have.  She  has  been  in  my  thoughts  every 
hour  since.  I  have  left  all  my  trials  with  Heaven,  and 
been  rewarded  for  it.  O,  I  am  so  happy !  I  feel  that 
I  shall  soon  see  my  dear  mother  again." 

Mr.  Brimmer  soon  after  knelt  down  by  her  bedside 
and  offered  an  earnest  prayer.  Every  petition  she  as 
earnestly  preferred  after  him.  Every  word  seemed  to 
feed  her  soul.  When  he  arose  again,  and  turned  to  re- 
gard her  countenance,  he  found  it  as  serene  as  the  sun 
that  had  but  a  short  time  before  gone  down  behind  the 
horizon. 

He  talked  with  her  a  little  while  longer,  loath  to  leave 
a  scene  in  which  his  own  heart  took  such  deep  partici- 
pation ;  and  altogether  satisfactory,  too,  save  for  the  sad- 
dening influences  that  hovered  about  it 

When  he  finally  took  his  leave,  he  stooped  down 
and  affectionately  kissed  Milly,  promising  to  be  with 
her  again  very  soon,  and  enjoining  it  on  her  to  reconcile 
all  her  thoughts  to  the  event  that  might  be  so  near  at 
hand. 

He  passed  down  through  the  dining  room  to  the  front 
door ;  and  all  could  see  that  his  eyes  were  blinded  with 
tears,  that  fell  upon  the  floor  at  every  step. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

UNFORESEEN. 

THE  days  dragged  heavily  for  us  all.  How  could  it 
have  been  otherwise,  when  one  so  dear  to  us  was 
stretched  on  a  bed  of  suffering,  and,  perhaps,  of  death  ? 

No  one  found  the  inclination  to  do  any  thing.  All 
our  energy  seemed  smitten  with  a  sudden  palsy.  Sad 
countenances  met  each  other  every  where  we  went 
about  the  house  —  at  the  table,  in  the  entries,  on  the 
stairs.  There  was  vivacity  on  no  hand.  Each  day  the 
gloom  grew  deeper,  as  if  the  pall  let  itself  down  still 
lower  upon  our  heads. 

The  sick  child  all  the  while  grew  weaker  and  weak- 
er; and  with  her  wasted  strength  appeared  to  come 
purer  thoughts,  and  gentler  feelings,  and  loftier  pur- 
poses. If  ever  a  human  being  seemed  purged  of  her 
material  nature,  she  was  that  one. 

She  never  forgot  one  of  us,  however,  in  all  her  own 
trouble.  Each  day  she  repeatedly  asked  for  us  all,  and 
would  have  us  come  to  her  bedside  and  talk  with  her, 
and  kissed  us  affectionately  as  we  went  sorrowfully 
away. 

The  doctor's  increased  anxiety  was  sufficient  warn- 
ing of  the  imminent  danger  that  threatened.  He  came 
oftener,  very  much  oftener,  now,  and  staid  longer  with 
her,  and  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  Miss  Nancy  and  the 
rest  in  whispers.  Those  whispers  were  exceedingly 
ominous.  And  he  had,  in  his  own  deep  sympathy,  told 
29  f337) 


338  DOVECOTE. 

some  people  in  the  village  more  than  he  would  tell  us 
of  the  case,  pronouncing  it  an  extreme  one,  which  noth- 
ing short  of  a  providential  interposition  could  well  turn 
into  a  favorable  aspect 

Mr.  Brimmer  failed  not  a  day.  He  generally  came 
twice  a  day,  when  he  could,  and  cheered  the  mind  of 
little  Milly  with  his  calm  words  about  death,  and  heav- 
en, and  happiness.  She  listened  always  to  him  with 
rapt  attention,  oftentimes  with  her  eyes  devotionally 
closed,  and  her  hands  folded  as  in  prayer.  It  was 
touching  indeed  to  behold  her  resignation. 

One  day,  when  her  pulses  seemed  to  be  at  their  low- 
est ebb,  and  her  breath  seemed  to  have  grown  fainter 
than  ever  before,  a  wagon  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a 
man  and  a  boy  leaped  to  the  ground.  Their  manner 
was,  apparently,  not  a  little  excited,  and  neither  stopped 
$o  fasten  their  horse,  leaving  it  just  where  they  got  out 
of  the  wagon. 

The  man  knocked  smartly  at  the  door,  the  boy  stand- 
ing close  by  his  side. 

Miss  Nancy  herself  happened  to  be  at  hand,  and  so 
immediately  answered  his  summons. 

"  This  is  Dovecote  ?  "  inquired  he,  in  much  haste. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Miss  Nancy. 
.     "  There  is  a  little  girl  living  here,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  she,  "  several." 

"  But  one  —  a  particular  one;  her  name  is  —  is  —  is 
Milly  ? "  What  made  the  man  hesitate  and  stammer  in 
that  way  ?  "  Milly  is  her  name,  ma'am ;  or  was,  once. 
Is  she  here  ?  Is  she  living  here  ? " 

"  There  is  a  child  here  of  that  name,"  returned  Miss 
Nancy. 

"  Then  I  want  to    see    her !     I  want  to   see  her 


UNFORESEEN.  339 

"  But  it  is  hardjy  prudent,  sir.  She  is  lying  very  low 
at  present,  and  will  hardly  recover." 

"  What  do  you  tell  me  ?  "  exclaimed  he,  his  face  be- 
coming exceedingly  pale.  "  Sick,  is  she  ?  Very  low  ? 
Then  let  me  see  her  without  another  minute's  delay. 
It  may  even  be  too  late  if  I  am  put  off  now  !  "  And 
he  motioned  to  pass  in.  The  boy  kept  all  the  time 
close  at  his  side. 

"But  I  do  not  understand,  sir.  What  is  the  occasion 
of " 

"  I  beg  you,  don't  put  me  off  at  a  moment  like  this 
with  questions  !  Only  show  me  the  way  to  her.  Let 
me  in  at  once.  It  may  be  too  late.  She  may  be  dying 
now.  She  may  be  dead  before  I  can  see  her." 

"  Are  you  related  in  any  way  to  her  ?  "  inquired  Miss 
Nancy,  struck  with  the  excited  manner  of  the  visitor. 

"  All  that  you  shall  know  by  and  by.  You  shall  hear 
a  full  explanation.  I  beg  you,  do  but  show  me  the  way 
at  once  to  her  bedside.  I  am  in  a  frenzy  to  see  her ! " 

She  had  nothing,  therefore,  to  do  but  to  conduct  him 
as  he  desired.  He  was  in  such  a  state  of  excitement, 
that  to  attempt  to  talk  with  him  were  little  less  than 
folly. 

Along  through  the  passages  and  up  the  stairs  they 
went,  Miss  Nancy  leading  the  way.  She  walked  a-tip- 
toe,  fearing  lest  she  might  wake  the  echoes  that  had 
slumbered  there  so  long.  Arriving  at  the  door  of  the 
chamber  in  which  Milly  lay,  she  cautiously  opened  it, 
whispering  to  the  stranger  as  she  did  so,  "  Make  as  little 
noise  as  you  can  !  " 

The  moment  they  entered  the  room  the  stranger's 
eyes  fell  on  the  pale  and  dying  face  of  the  sufferer.  No 
one  seemed  to  observe  that  the  boy  had  likewise  come 
up  stairs  with  him ;  and  he  followed  close  behind, 


340  DOVECOTE. 

regarding  every  object  intently.  As  soon  as  the  stranger 
saw  that  the  child  was  likewise  looking  steadily  at  him, 
he  walked  quickly  up  to  the  bedside  and  kneeled  down, 
taking  her  hand. 

"  Milly  !  Milly  !  Milly !  "  exclaimed  he,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  heart  of  the  child  was  filled 
with  wonder  and  astonishment.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  him,  trying  to  understand  what  he  might  mean. 

"  My  child  !  "  exclaimed  he  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  What  do  you  tell  her  ?  "  asked  Miss  Nancy,  becom- 
ing suddenly  as  excited  as  he. 

"  My  dear  child  Milly,"  he  continued,  "  I  have  done 
you  a  great  wrong  indeed  !  I  am  a  wretched  man,  that 
I  have  been  the  cause  of  all  this  misery  for  others. 
Forgive  me,  child !  Do  not  die  before  you  have  for- 
given me ! " 

There  was  a  pause.  Milly  was  silent.  She  knew 
not  what  to  say..  She  was  utterly  ignorant  what  it  was 
expected  of  her  to  say.  Her  breathing  became  very 
rapid,  and  the  color  flushed  her  cheeks. 

"  Milly,"  said  he,  "  you  are  my  daughter.  I  am  your 
father,  whom  you  have  never  known." 

"  My  father !  "  uttered  she,  in  a  soft  and  slow  excla- 
mation. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  I  am  your  only  living  parent.  Your 
poor  mother  is  dead." 

It  cost  her  a  marked  effort  to  comprehend  the  whole 
meaning  of  what  he  said,  in  its  length  and  its  breadth. 
She  pondered  upon  it  for  a  few  minutes.  Her  brow 
was  clouded  as  with  an  untold  trouble.  She  rallied 
her  faculties,  her  memory  especially.  The  thoughts 
of  her  mother,  that  chased  one  another  in  such  quick 
succession  across  her  brain,  were  now  shaded  with 


UNFORESEEN.  341 

strange  misgivings,  such  as  she  had  never  felt  before, 
and  that  she  could  not  describe. 

"  You  never  knew  a  father,  Milly,"  he  continued,  see- 
ing that  her  feelings  pained  her  acutely.  "  You  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  the  protection  of  a  father's 
love." 

"  No,"  she  answered  faintly,  "  I  had  only  my  mother 
to  love  ;  but  I  loved  her  with  all  my  heart.  I  shall  see 
her  soon." 

"  I  did  you  great  wrong,  Milly ;  and  this  is  my  punish- 
ment. While  you  were  yet  an  infant  I  left  you  and 
your  mother,  hoping  her  brother  would  help  her.  I  had 
myself  become  discouraged.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
there  was  no  other  way  but  to  sink  down  and  die  in  the 
conflict.  I  could  not  provide  for  your  mother  as  I 
would,  and  so  I  left  her  cruelly  to  her  fate.  It  was 
cruel  indeed,  Milly ;  and  many  a  long  hour  of  suffering 
have  I  since  had  in  return  for  it." 

"  But  what  did  you  go  away  for  ?  "  asked  she,  scruti- 
nizing his  countenance  in  a  manner  that  made  him 
almost  quail  before  her. 

"  Because  I  was  a  coward,  child ;  and  for  no  other 
reason." 

"  Mother  got  through  it,  though." 

"  And  I  should  have  gone  through  it  with  her !  I 
should  have  protected  her  as  long  as  she  would  stand  at 
my  side.  I  should  have  done  all  that  I  could  do,  and 
left  the  whole  to  Heaven.  But  I  was  too  cowardly  for 
that !  I  lost  my  patience.  I  grew  morbid.  I  thought 
that  the  world  was  arrayed  against  me  ;  and  so  I  meant 
to  get  out  of  the  world,' as  far  as  it  was  unpleasant  to 
me." 

"  But  you  have  come  back  again  ?  " 

"  I  took  the  first  opportunity  that  offered  to  sail  to 
29* 


342  DOVECOTE. 

South  America.  There  I  lived  a  wretched  life  for  a 
long  time.  I  was  even  more  downcast  than  I  had  been 
at  home.  But  matters  took  a  sudden  turn.  Things 
looked  better  for  me.  My  prospects  brightened.  I  saw 
golden  chances  before  me,  and  I  was  feverish  to  seize 
them.  I  prayed  only  for  success,  that  I  might  return  to 
my  wife  and  child,  and  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  do 
nothing  but  make  them  happy.  And  success  came  at 
last  —  as  much  of  it  as  I  had  prayed  for  —  more  than  I 
had  ever  dared  to  expect  I  clutched  my  fortune 
eagerly.  I  was  ravenous  to  get  and  enjoy  it  all.  It 
was  now  in  my  hand.  I  could  feel  it.  It  made  my 
heart  glad  to  count  it  over  and  over.  And  then  I  came 
back  to  my  wife  and  child,  hoping  that  Heaven  had 
suffered  them  to  wait  patiently  my  return." 

He  paused  with  his  growing  emotion,  and,  with  a 
strong  effort,  controlled  himself.  In  a  moment  he  went 
on. 

"  When  I  had  reached  the  place  where  I  had  left  you 
both,  you  were  not  there.  I  made  diligent  inquiries  for 
you ;  but  you  were  not  to  be  found.  No  one  knew 
any  thing  of  you,  except  that  your  mother  had,  with  an 
almost  broken  heart,  taken  you  away  where  neither  of 
us  were  known. 

"  Next  I  made  indirect  inquiries  respecting  your 
uncle  Trevelyn,  hoping  she  might  have  gone  to  him, 
and  finally  found  the  home  and  happiness  I  could  not 
give  her  beneath  his  roof.  But  even  her  own  brother 
knew  nothing  of  her.  He  had  not  so  much  as  heard  of 
her. 

"  I  sought  the  town.  There  I  watched  and  wan- 
dered. All  the  while  I  felt  myself  but  a  miserable  pil- 
grim. I  was  in  search  of  the  shrine  of  my  affections  — 
my  wife  and  child.  As  for  home,  that  was  long  ago 


UNFORESEEN.  343 

desolate.  My  unannounced  withdrawal  threw  down  a 
chill  and  a  gloom  across  the  hearth. 

"  For  a  time  all  my  inquiries  and  searches  were  to  no 
purpose.  No  one  seemed  to  have  heard  of  either  your- 
self or  your  mother.  You,  who  filled  my  heart,  were 
not  so  much  as  thought  of  by  the  tens  of  thousands 
through  whose  busy  midst  I  crowded  my  way.  You 
must  be  drowned  in  the  noisy  whirlpool  of  life,  if  you 
had  ever  been  thrown  into  it.  And  so  I  gave  you  up, 
and  thought  I  saw  in  my  great  disappointment  the 
proper  reward  of  my  cruelty. 

"  As  I  sat  one  day  brooding  over  my  wretchedness,  un- 
determined what  to  do  next,  or  where  to  go,  a  little  boy 
stepped  before  me,  bearing  a  bundle  of  papers  under  his 
arm.  His  voice  sounded  very  pleasant  on  my  ear  as  he 
accosted  me,  and  I  thought  there  must  be  something  in- 
teresting in  one  who  spoke  in  such  a  tone.  I  looked  up 
from  the  floor,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  his  face. 

"  '  Will  you  have  a  paper  this  morning,  sir,'  said  he. 
I  regarded  him  a  moment  before  I  answered  him. 
Finally  I  purchased  one.  '  If  I  could  only  get  any 
news  of  them  from  it,'  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  unfolded 
the  paper.  He  looked  at  me  with  more  interest  than 
ever.  '  Of  who  ? '  said  he.  I  told  him  of  whom.  And 
then  his  eyes  kindled  so  strangely,  and  his  face  lit  up 
with  such  a  pleasant  and  intelligent  expression,  that  I 
was  strongly  excited.  While  I  looked  at  him  he  said 
again,  '  I  know  all  about  'em  ! ' 

"  I  seized  him  by  the  arm.  '  All  the  money  you 
want,'  I  told  him, '  is  yours,  if  you  can  give  me  any  in- 
telligence such  as  I  desire  ! '  Then  he  began  and  went 
through  his  narration.  I  was  thunderstruck.  Such 
astonishment  had  never  seized  me  before.  He  told  me 


344  DOVECOTE. 

if  I  would  follow  him  he  would  put  me  on  the  track  I 
ought  to  pursue  at  once. 

"  We  went  to  his  mother's.  She  was  an  honest  but 
a  poor  woman,  and  delighted  to  make  known  to  me  all 
that  she  had  ever  known  herself  of  you.  She  said  that 
you  had  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  her  —  right  in 
the  next  room.  You  cannot  measure  my  excitement 
and  anxiety.  I  wanted  to  hear  all ;  yet  I  was  troubled 
with  a  terrible  fear.  I  urged  her,  however,  to  tell  me 
the  whole,  without  reservation  or  delay. 

"  She  made  known  to  me  your  mother's  sickness  and 
her  death  !  That  was  what  I  most  feared.  And  now,  I 
thought,  my  punishment  is  upon  me  !  God  help  me  to 
bear  it  aU  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Stokes  ! "  faintly  exclaimed  Milly.  "  Good 
Mrs.  Stokes ! " 

"  Yes,  it  was  she  ;  and  this  little  boy  was  her  son." 

"  Billy  Stokes  !  "  Milly  said  again.     "  I  loved  him." 

"  He  took  me  immediately  to  still  another  place, 
where  an  acquaintance  of  his  lived.  It  was  a  young 
girl  whom  he  called  Moll.  She  lived  with  a  Mrs. 
Trevor." 

Miss  Nancy,  deeply  excited  with  the  scene,  at  this 
point  could  not  help  assenting. 

"  Mrs.  Trevor  was  away,  out  of  town ;  so  I  begged 
the  girl  to  tell  me  all  she  knew.  She  described  your 
life  at  the  poorhouse,  after  you  had  been  sent  there 
from  your  aunt's,  and  the  love  you  so  soon  inspired  all 
the  inmates  with.  She  told  me  of  your  sudden  de- 
parture, no  one  knew  whither ;  of  her  own  flight  after- 
wards ;  of  her  coming  to  the  city ;  of  her  sufferings,  and 
the  kindness  this  same  good  Mrs.  Stokes  showed  her, 
too ;  of  her  finding  a  home  with  Mrs.  Trevor,  and  her 


UNFORESEEN.  345 

visit  with  her  to  Dovecote  ;  of  her  great  surprise  at  find- 
ing you  here  again ;  and  of  her  return  to  town,  and  tell- 
ing Billy  Stokes  and  his  mother  the  fortunate  discovery 
she  had  thus  accidentally  made. 

"  I  was  too  impatient  to  hear  more.  From  her  I  re- 
ceived the  only  intelligence  I  got  of  your  existence,  or 
of  the  place  where  you  lived.  I  took  the  boy  with  me, 
and  set  out  for  Kirkwood  without  delay.  And  here  1 
come  to  find  my  child  —  the  last  earthly  hope  of  my 
heart  —  so  near  her  end,  and  so  happy  in  the  prospect 
before  her  !  Was  ever  a  father's  cruelty  more  severely 
punished  ?  " 

"  Where  did  you  leave  Billy  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

He  had  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  on  first  entering  the  room,  where  he  was  now  si- 
lently weeping. 

"  He  is  here,"  answered  her  father,  going  to  him  and 
leading  him  up  to  the  bedside. 

"  Billy  !  dear,  good  Billy  !  "  said  Milly,  extending  her 
hand  for  him.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  once  more  be- 
fore I  die  !  I  want  to  see  your  mother,  too.  She  did 
so  much  for  me  once,  too  !  Why  do  you  cry,  Billy  ? " 

The  boy  could  not  speak  to  answer  her. 

And  there  all  stood  around  her  bed,  their  hearts 
stirred  with  emotions  that  no  pen  is  able  to  describe. 
Joy  and  grief  were  both  mingled  as  in  that  old  home- 
stead they  had  never  been  mingled  before. 


CHAPTER  L. 

THE  BEEAKING  OF  THE   GOf-DEN  BOWL. 

SHE  had  several  long  conferences  with  her  parent 
after  this,  at  each  one  of  which  his  heart  received  les- 
sons that  would  last  him  to  his  grave.  Man  that  he  was, 
he  was  wholly  in  the  power  of  the  gentle  and  resigned 
spirit  of  a  little  child. 

Billy  Stokes,  too,  had  much  to  learn  from  her  lips  of 
his  duty  to  himself,  his  mother,  and  his  Maker.  She 
talked  with  him  in  the  tenderest  manner,  and  proffered 
him  advice  and  precept  that  sank  into  his  heart  like 
seed  into  a  good  soil.  His  deepest  sympathies  were 
moved,  and  gushed  freely  for  her  as  the  crystal  flood 
leaps  from  a  fountain. 

The  minister  came  in,  too,  and  sat  with  Milly  and  her 
father,  talking  in  his  calm  way  about  the  unexpected 
reunion,  and  the  ground  of  hope  for  another  and  a  closer 
union  above.  His  words  affected  the  father  exceedingly. 

Now  her  strength  failed  faster  than  ever.  The  seal 
seemed  to  be  finally  set.  One  and  another  came  into 
the  room,  gazed  anxiously  at  her  dying  look,  and  went 
out  again  to  give  way  to  their  tears. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  shone 
aslant  on  the  trees,  and  the  clouds  began  to  pile  in  the 
west,  and  the  odors  drifted  in  refreshingly  through  the 
open  window,  that  she  thought  she  was  going.  She 
called  us  all  around  her,  and  had  a  word  to  say  to  every 
one,  taking  leave  of  us  as  calmly  as  if  she  were  only 

(346) 


THE    BREAKING    OF    THE    GOLDEN    BOWL.  347 

setting  out  on  a  short  journey.     The  room  resounded 
with  sobs  and  moans. 

She  begged  us  not  to  weep ;  she  was  happy.  No  one 
could  tell  how  happy.  There  was  not  an  earthly  image 
that  could  adequately  set  forth  the  serenity  of  her  mind. 
Heaven  itself  would  be  the  nearest  it ;  and  it  was  there 
she  believed,  and  we  all  believed,  she  was  going. 

Calling  her  father  closer  to  her,  she  threw  her  wasted 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  him  again  and  again. 

"  O,  forgive  me,  my  child  !  my  child  ! "  cried  he,  the 
hot  tears  dropping  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  she.  "  I  am  so  much 
happier  to  see  my  father  before  I  die !  Only  promise 
me,  father,  that  we  shall  meet  again ! " 

His  heart  was  melted.     The  flint  had  been  broken. 

"  I  will  hope  to,"  was  all  he  could  reply.  "  I  can  only 
pray  for  strength." 

"  And  if  you  pray  right,  father,  you  will  have  it.  No 
one  ever  asked  in  vain.  The  Bible  tells  me  so,  and  it 
tells  you  so.  But  I  want  to  ask  you  one  other  thing," 
added  she. 

"  What  is  it,  Milly  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Whatever  you  ask, 
I  will  try  and  do." 

"  I  have  got  another  friend,  who  doesn't  know  how 
sick  I  am ;  if  she  did,  she  would  be  here." 

"  Shall  I  go  bring  her  ?  Shall  I  go  ?  Where  is  she, 
Milly?" 

"  No,"  said  she ;  "  it  is  too  late  now.  She  wouldn't  get 
here.  But  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise  about 
her,  father." 

"  Any  thing  my  dear  child  may  ask.     Any  thing." 

"  She  lives  in  the  little  hut  on  the  mountain,"  said 
Milly,  her  voice  failing  her  rapidly.  "  Her  name  is 
Daisy.  I  love  her  so  much !  I  want  you  to  make  her 


348  DOVECOTE. 

your  child  when  I  am  gone,  and  try  and  love  her  for 
my  sake.  She  will  take  my  place  in  your  heart.  Will 
you,  father  ?  " 

"  I  will !  I  will,  Milly !  "  he  hastily  answered,  eager  to 
gratify  even  the  least  of  her  dying  wishes. 

"  And  good  Mrs.  Stokes,"  said  Milly. 

"  I  will  make  her  comfortable  for  your  sake ! " 

"  And  kind  little  Billy,  too." 

"  Yes,  and  him,  too  !    They  shall  none  of  them  suffer ! " 

"  And  there  is  aunt  Trevelyn,"  added  Milly.  "  She 
was  harsh  to  me ;  but  I  forgave  her.  Will  you  tell  her 
that  I  am  dying  so  happy,  and  that  I  bless  her  with  my 
last  breath  ?  Will  you  go  see  her,  too  ?  " 

"  She  has  been  so  unkind  !  "  suggested  her  father. 

"  But  her  heart  knew  no  differently  then.  She  must 
feel  another  way  now.  She  has  had  her  trials,  you 
know.  We  must  forgive  her,  father." 

"  I  promise  —  I  promise  to  do  every  thing  as  you  desire, 
my  child ! "  replied  the  afflicted  father. 

"  Then  I  shall  die  happy.     O,  what  a  relief  it  all  is !  " 

The  minister  asked  her  if  he  should  pray  with  her,  to 
which  she  expressed  immediate  assent.  And  thereup- 
on Mr.  Brimmer  offered  up  to  Heaven  a  petition  for  her, 
for  her  friends,  and  for  all,  the  rest  joining  on  their  knees, 
with  hearts  ascending  on  each  solemn  and  fervent 
word. 

When  they  rose  to  their  feet,  she  only  said,  in  the 
faintest  voice  that  could  be  audible,  — 

"  Good  by !     I  am  going  home !     Good  by ! " 

And  she  was  gone. 

Her  breath  went  out  like  the  dying  flame  of  a  candle, 
with  no  struggle,  no  noise,  no  moan.  Like  a  tender 
flower,  she  was  in  a  single  moment  transplanted  to  a 
fairer  garden. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  GOLDEN  BOWL.     349 

We  stood  about  the  bed,  awed  into  silence  with  this 
sweet  and  speaking  picture  of  death.  There  was  no 
terror  in  it  all ;  no  gloom  about  it ;  no  fear  hanging  over 
it,  to  convulse  the  heart  with  a  shudder.  It  was  as 
peaceful  as  the  slumber  of  an  infant. 

When  the  little  green  mound  was  raised  over  her 
body,  and  the  mourners  for  the  gentle  child  had  gone 
home  again  to  their  griefs,  the  father  of  Milly  went  up 
the  mountain,  in  company  with  Billy  Stokes,  to  carry  out 
the  last  wishes  of  his  dead  child. 

It  was  nigh  sunset  when  they  reached  the  spot,  and 
the  view,  to  any  but  a  heart  bruised  with  sorrow,  would 
have  been  enchanting.  But  neither  of  them  paused  to 
enjoy  it.  They  moved  straight  forward  to  the  hut,  fol- 
lowing the  path  in  which  they  had  been  directed. 

Both  came  to  the  door  at  once,  and  looked  in.  The 
black  cat  bristled  and  hissed,  and  Jarvie  and  Daisy  looked 
up.  The  former  was  sitting  down  over  a  little  fire  he 
had  kindled  preparatory  to  cooking  some  fish  he  had 
just  brought  in  for  his  supper. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  the  man  who  stood  in  the  door  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  flashing  fire.  The  eyes  of 
the  stranger  kindled  hardly  less  likewise. 

"  Villain !  robber !  thief !  Have  you  followed  me 
even  here  1  Do  you  dare  invade  the  quiet  of  this  my 
solitary  home  ? "  cried  old  Jarvie,  moving  about  his  arms, 
in  his  strong  excitement.  "  Why  did  I  not  strike  you 
dead  in  the  streets?  Why  did  my  arm  fail  me  just 
then?  Robber!  villain!  At  least,  you  shall  pay  the  price 
of  your  crime  now  !  You  shall  go  where  you  have  sent  the 
heart  nearest  my  own  —  to  the  grave  I "  and  he  advanced 
upon  him. 

"  Hold ! "  cried  the  other,  in  a  voice  that  thrilled  old 
30 


350  DOVECOTE. 

Jarvie,  and  made  him  stand  in  spite  of  himself.  "  Be 
calm  !  Only  be  calm  !  You  know  not  what  harm  you 
may  do ! " 

"  I  know  what  I  wish  I  once  had  done,"  said  Jarvie, 
"  when  I  met  you,  after  so  long  a  search,  in  the 
streets ! " 

"  William  Branch,"  sadly  began  the  stranger,  "  I  have 
done  you  in  my  lifetime  as  foul  a  wrong  as  man  ever 
can  do  another  !  Let  me  hasten  to  acknowledge  it" 

"  That  you  have  !  "  interrupted  Jarvie,  —  whose  name 
was  but  a  fiction  of  his  own,  after  all,  —  his  threatening 
tone  a  little  mollified  already  by  the  gentler  manner  of 
the  other.  "  You've  done  me  a  wrong  no  man  can 
right ! " 

"  Let  me  at  least  try.  I  have  come  to  you  only  for 
that.  I  have  come  to  your  lonely  hut  to  tell  you  that  I 
am  willing  to  make  the  fullest  amends  I  can  for  my  in- 
juries to  you." 

"  It's  too  late ! "  cried  Jarvie,  still  more  softened. 
"  Why  didn't  you  come  before  ?  What  made  you  stay 
away  till  my  child  died?  till  you'd  broken  her  heart, 
and  laid  her  in  the  grave  ?  Do  you  blame  me  for  trying 
to  kill  you  in  the  streets  ?  Does  any  body  blame  me  ? 
Wouldn't  they  try  to  do  the  same  thing  themselves  ?  " 

"  I  say  nothing  of  that  now,"  returned  the  visitor. 
"  Let  it  go.  It  is  better  to  do  so.  I  treasure  no  hard 
feelings,  William  Branch,  for  any  thing  you  may  have 
done." 

"  And  well  you,  mightn't,  I  tell  you !  Tm  the 
wronged  one,  and  you  are  the  aggressor  !  Who  should 
lay  up  the  hard  feelings,  pray  ?  " 

"  I  hope  neither  of  us." 

"  You  expect  a  good  deal,  let  me  tell  you  !  It  ain't 
in  human  nature  !  " 


THE    BREAKING    OF    THE    GOLDEN    BOWL.  351 

"  Let  me  tell  you 'what  I  have  come  to  tell  you.  My 
child  has  just  died  in  the  house  at  the  foot  of  this  moun- 
tain —  my  only  child." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Jarvie.  "  Speak  the  truth 
now,  let  the  shame  strike  as  it  will !  " 

"  The  last  expressed  wish  of  my  child  was,  that  I 
should  take  your  little  Daisy  in  her  stead,  and  do  by 
her  exactly  as  I  would  have  done  by  Milly." 

"  A  thing  you'd  ought  to  ha'  done  long  ago  !  "  inter- 
rupted Jarvie.  "  It  was  a  great  wrong  —  a  cruel 
wrong ! " 

"  I  would  not  rob  you  of  all  that  is  left  to  gladden 
your  heart,  but  I  would  do  my  duty  while  I  am  in  the 
way  of  it." 

"  My  little  Daisy  is  all  the  lamb  I  have,"  said  Jarvie. 

"  And  unless  I  have  her,  /  have  none  either." 

"  What  better  do  you  deserve  than  what's  fallen  on 
you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  —  nothing.  I  confess  it  freely  to  you. 
Nothing  at  all.  I  have  done  wrong ;  let  me  make  it 
right  again  while  it  is  in  my  power.  I  will  do  all  I  can 
to  make  up  to  you  for  your  suffering." 

"  You  can  never  hope  to  do  any  thing,  then.  No 
tongue  can  begin  to  tell  the  wretchedness  of  my  life. 
I've  tried  to  live  it  down  in  the  solitudes  ;  but  the  soli- 
tudes won't  do  it.  And  in  the  crowds  of  men  in  the 
streets  there  is  more  solitude  than  any  where  else.  I 
can  live  only  here ;  and  life  here  is  bitter  enough, 
though  I  try  to  keep  all  my  sorrows  to  myself.  Nobody 
can  share  'em  !  " 

"  At  least,"  returned  the  other,  "  let  me.  Let  me  take 
from  your  shoulders  a  part  of  the  burden  you  carry." 

"  And  you  want  Daisy  ?  " 

"  That  was  Milly's  last  wish." 


352  DOVECOTE. 

"  And  when  you  take  Daisy,  instead  of  making  my 
load  lighter,  you  make  it  heavier — you  rob  me  of  all 
I've  got ! " 

Jarvie  began  to  forget  his  passion,  and  fell  to  musing, 
casting  his  eyes  down  on  the  rough  floor. 

"  You  shall  be  made  comfortable  wherever  it  is  your 
pleasure  to  live.  Only  suffer  me  to  adopt  this  child  for 
my  own.  I  will  care  for  her  as  you  would  yourself. 
She  shall  have  all  the  advantages  that  money  can  fur- 
nish. She  shall  be  instructed  in  the  best  schools,  and 
introduced  into  good  circles.  Her  prospects  shall  be  as 
fair  as  those  of  the  wealthiest" 

Jarvie  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"  And  I  live  alone  here  on  this  mountain  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No  ;  you  shall  have  your  home  just  where  you  will. 
I  have  money  now,  which  once  I  did  not  have.  You 
shall  not  suffer.  I  will  provide." 

"  Ah !  this  sounds  more  as  it  should  !  " 

"  And  whatever  can  in  the  least  add  to  your  happi- 
ness you  shall  ask  for  without  reserve.  You  shall  not 
be  left  alone.  The  child  shall  come  regularly  to  see 
you,  if  you  like." 

"  But  that  wouldn't  do  after  she'd  got  into  other 
ways.  I  might  want  to  see  her  when  she  didn't  know 
it ;  but  it  wouldn't  do  for  tier  to  come  where  I  live.  I 
could  watch  my  chances,  though.  I  should  know  how 
she  was  gettin'  on." 

"  And,  then,  will  you  consent  to  what  I  ask  ? " 

"  You  ask  a  good  deal  I  want  time  to  think ;  and 
much  thought,  too." 

"  I  know  I  ask  a  great  deal ;  but  my  sense  of  duty 
impels  me  to  more  than  I  was  ready  at  one  time  to  un- 
dertake. Give  me  the  girl,  and  I  shall  exert  myself  to 
see  that  all  three  of  us  are  happy.  Keep  her  yourself 


THE    BREAKING    OF    THE    GOLDEN    BOWL.  353 

and  one  of  us,  at  least,  will  be  miserable  always. 
Which  shaU  be  done  ?  " 

"  Let  me  think,  let  me  think,  I  say.  It  takes  time  to 
settle  such  a  thing  as  it  should  be." 

It  was  miraculous  what  a  thorough  revolution  had 
thus  been  wrought  in  his  feelings  by  nothing  but  a  free 
confession  on  the  part  of  him  who  had  wronged  him, 
and  a  desire  to  cancel  the  injury  at  the  earliest  moment. 
The  law  of  forgiveness  was  exemplified  in  its  fullest 
extent. 

Not  until  then  did  the  eyes  of  Jarvie  rest  on  the 
piercing  ones  of  Billy  Stokes  at  the  door.  The  boy  had 
stood  there  all  this  time,  silently  studying  the  character 
of  Jarvie,  and  wondering  within  himself  at  discovering 
that  Milly's  father,  after  all,  was  the  same  man  whom 
Jarvie  had  so  desperately  assaulted.  Well  might  he 
wonder. 

"  There's  my  little  friend  agin ! "  exclaimed  Jarvie. 
"  There  he  is  !  He  brought  me  comfort  when  nobody 
else  did  !  "  And  he  sprang  forward  to  grasp  him  by  the 
hand.  Meanwhile  the  father  of  Milly  walked  in  and 
sat  down  on  the  bench,  and  began  to  regard  Daisy  with 
a  look  of  affection. 

"  I  always  thought  we  should  meet  agin  !  "  said  Jar- 
vie.  "  Why  didn't  you  speak,  and  tell  me  'twas  you  ? 
What  made  you  stay  out  doors  ?  You  don't  know  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you  up  here.  How  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  With  him,"  answered  Billy,  pointing  to  the  other. 

"  Did  you,  know  little  Milly,  too  ?  She  used  to  come 
up  on  the  mountain  pretty  often  to  see  Daisy.  Did  you 
know  Daisy  ? " 

Billy  told  him  that  he  did  not ;  but  another  —  Moll  — 
had  told  him  all  about  her. 

Then  Jarvie  entered  upon  a  long  talk  with  him,  ask- 
30* 


354  DOVECOTE. 

ing  him  questions  at  random  about  the  town  and  all  that 
was  going  on  there.  They  sat  down  near  the  door,  and 
had  it  to  themselves. 

And  Daisy  was  answering  the  questions  that  were 
put  her,  too,  always  speaking  of  Milly  with  deep  feel- 
ing, as  if  her  love  for  her  had  been  sisterly  indeed  from 
the  first.  Little  thought  Milly,  however,  of  the  secret 
affinity  that  held  them  together  ! 

The  bereft  father  strove  to  find  his  way  to  the  girl's 
heart  by  means  of  gentleness  and  promises.  It  would 
be,  perhaps,  a  long  work  with  him ;  but  he  might  ac- 
complish it  at  the  last,  fulfilling  to  the  letter  the  dying 
wish  of  the  dear  Milly,  whose  memory  now  would  live 
fresh  in  his  heart  as  long  as  it  beat. 

In  so  short  a  space,  how  great  was  the  change  in  the 
aspect  of  the  rude  old  cabin  ! 


CHAPTER  LI. 

CONCLUSION. 

THE  peacefulness,  however,  was  not  long  after 
broken  by  the  entrance  of  another.  Adam  Drowne 
presented  himself  at  the  door.  He  looked  in  shyly,  and 
said  to  Jarvie,  in  a  suppressed  tone,  — 

"  Got  more  company,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Jarvie,  "  he's  the  one."  And  he 
pointed  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  Milly's 
father. 

Adam's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  stranger  with  an  alto- 
gether new  interest.  He  studied  his  features  long  and 
closely. 

"  What  of 'him  1 "  finally  asked  he.     "  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Adam,"  said  Jarvie,  shaking  his  head,  "  you 
may  well  ask  who  he  is  !  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  you 
wouldn't  been  miserable  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  !  " 

"  Aha !  aha  !  "  exclaimed  he,  in  a  voice  little  above  a 
whisper.  "  What  does  that  mean  ?  Did  he  ever  see 
Mary  ?  Do  you  mean  that  ? " 

"  That's  jest  what  I  mean." 

"  He  !  "  said  Adam  again,  pointing  at  him  with  his 
finger. 

"  He  was  the  one  she  loved  so  much." 

"  He  !  he  !  "  continued  Adam,  still  pointing,  and  his 
eyes  flashing  under  the  control  of  his  monomania. 
"  What's  he  here  for  ?  Let  me  kill  him  !  Why  don't 

(355) 


356  DOVECOTE. 

you  kill  him  ?  You've  been  hunting  after  him  this  long 
while  ;  why  don't  you  kill  him  ?  " 

All  this  exciting  conversation  as  yet  was  unheard  by 
the  subject  of  it,  who  sat  talking  with  Daisy  in  the  back 
side  of  the  apartment.  His  face  was  not  turned  exact- 
ly to  the  door,  and  he  could  not  see,  therefore,  that 
another  person  had  just  come  up. 

"  He's  after  Daisy,"  said  Jarvie,  in  answer  to  Adam's 
questions. 

"  Are  you  goin'  to  let  him  Jiave  her  ?  Shall  you  do 
such  a  thing  as  that?  He  come  and  rob  your  heart 
agin ! " 

"  He's  Milly's  father,"  added  Jarvie. 

"  That  man  !  A  man  like  that  the  father  of  my  poor, 
dear,  dead  Milly  !  I  don't  believe  it !  " 

"  But  that  won't  make  any  difference,  whether  you  do 
or  not,  I  guess.  He's  offered  to  come  here  and  make 
up  for  what  wrong  he's  done " 

"  And  are  you  goin'  to  let  him  ?  Are  you  goin'  to  har- 
bor such  a  villain  as  that  ?  " 

"  He  don't  talk  like  a  villain  now.  His  other  little 
girl's  death,  I  guess,  has  quite  broke  him." 

Adam  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  sighed, 
"  Poor  Milly  !  " 

"  If  a  man's  willin'  to  do  right,  after  he's  done  so  fur 
the  t'other  way,"  said  Jarvie,  "  who'd  want  to  bender 
him  ?  That  would  be  as  much  out  o'  the  way  as  he  is ! " 

Adam  looked  uncommonly  dejected  and  sorrowful. 

"  He's  full  of  bruises  about  his  heart,  I  guess,"  said 
Jarvie,  "  and  I  ain't  the  man  to  want  to  batter  him 
more'n  he  can  well  stan'.  If  he's  sorry,  —  and  I  guess  he 
really  is,  —  why,  then,  I'll  forgive  him.  I  pity  him  now." 

"  I  can't  think  such  a  man's  the  father  o'  my  Milly  !  " 


CONCLUSION.  357 

said  Adam,  crossing  his  hands  behind  him,  and  studying 
the  ground  still. 

"  But  there  ain't  no  doubt  oft,  though,  in  my  mind. 
Here's  little  Billy,"  —  pointing  to  the  boy  who  sat  near 
him  —  "  he's  seen  it  all,  and  he  believes  it.  Don't  you, 
Billy  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  think  he  really  is,"  answered  the  little 
fellow. 

Adam  gave  him  another  searching  look. 

"  Then  Daisy'll  go  too  !  "  mused  he,  running  his  eyes 
off  over  the  landscape,  through  whose  juicy  green  the 
little  creek  was  running,  and  winding,  and  flashing. 
"  You'll  lose  her,  too  !  And  there'll  be  little  or  nothing 
for  me  to  come  up  here  for  —  no  child  to  make  me  think 
of  her  dead  mother  when  I  look  into  her  sweet  face  — 
nothing  but  you  and  that  awful  black  cat.  It'll  be  jest 
like  the  grave  up  here  —  no  sound  of  any  body's  voice, 
no  laughter,  no  little  feet  to  patter  round  on  the  hard  old 
floor.  What  will  there  be  for  me  to  come  to  see  ?  How 
can  I  set  down  on  the  rocks  out  o'  this  door,  and  do 
nothing  but  think  ?  How  can  I  live  under  it  all  ?  / 
can't  !  and  there's  no  use  in  wantin'  to,  either  !  " 

The  spirits  of  the  poor,  wandering  lover  had  hitherto 
been  measurably  kept  up  by  the  presence  of  the  girl, 
who  reminded  him  so  much  of  the  object  of  his  earlier 
affection  ;  but  they  were  bruised  and  broken  now.  His 
aims  seemed  suddenly  gone.  His  hopes  sunk  like  a 
flame  in  the  darkness. 

"  Then  this  is  my  last  look  at  her,"  said  he,  regarding 
Daisy  with  a  melancholy  look  from  the  door.  "  She 
calls  up  her  mother's  image  again  ;  though  it  will  never 
die  out  of  my  heart.  Let  me  take  a  good  look." 

So  he  stood  there  gazing  at  her  for  many  minutes 

Jarvie   and  his   young  friend  kept  silence   all  the 


358  DOVECOTE. 

while.  The  boy  was  lost  in  wonder  at  what  he  saw ; 
and  when  he  glanced  at  the  persons  around  him,  and 
then  let  his  eyes  swim  over  the  landscape,  and  again 
thought  of  Milly  and  all  that  had  happened  to  her  since 
her  departure  for  her  uncle  Trevelyn's,  he  could  hardly 
think  that  these  things  could  be  real,  but  felt  as  if  he 
might  be  acting  a  part  in  some  strange  dream. 

"  That's  all ! "  muttered  Adam  Drowne,  slowly  and 
sadly  withdrawing  himself.  "  I  never  thought  tliis 
would  come  about,  though  !  " 

He  turned  to  leave  the  place.  No  one  asked  him 
why  he  went,  or  whither  he  was  going.  The  same 
piece  of  driftwood  on  the  current  of  the  world  that  he 
ever  had  been  he  would  continue  to  be.  He  would 
follow  the  same  courses,  the  same  old  paths,  the  same 
half-matured  plans.  He  would  be  a  waif  for  his  whole 
life. 

Next  morning,  as  a  man  from  the  village  was  fishing 
among  the  leathery  leaves  of  the  lilypads  in  the  little 
river,  spinning  his  lines  over  and  around  their  shadows 
for  the  lurking  pickerel,  he  started  at  discovering  a 
strange  object  thrust  upwards  through  the  tangled  mass 
of  green.  So  plainly  it  showed,  there  could  be  little 
room  to  hesitate  as  to  what  it  was.  His  eyes  were  riv- 
eted to  it,  in  spite  of  the  feeling  of  horror  that  made 
him  so  faint 

The  object  was  a  human  hand,  sticking  up,  stark  and 
stiff,  as  if  for  assistance,  when  assistance  was  no  longer 
to  be  had ! 

He  immediately  gave  the  alarm,  and  scores  of  the  vil- 
lagers hurried  from  all  quarters  to  the  spot,  with  ropes, 
poles,  stakes,  and  hooks.  They  secured  the  object  in 
sight,  and,  with  difficulty,  brought  it  to  the  shore.  As 


CONCLUSION.  359 

they  drew  it  out,  they  saw  that  the  body  was  that  of  a 
man. 

But  no  one  could  tell  \vlio  he  was.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  such  a  being,  either  in  tho  village  or  on  its  out- 
skirts. And  while  the  common  doubt  was  ruling,  old 
Jarvie  himself  came  strolling  along,  spinning  his  own  • 
hook,  in  quest  of  his  morning  meal.  He  was  attracted 
to  the  crowd,  and  cast  a  look  on  the  face  of  the  drowned 
man. 

"  I  know  him  !  "  he  at  once  said. 

"  Well,  who  is  he  ?  "  all  asked  him  at  once. 

"  His  name's  Adam  Drowne.  He's  been  out  of  Ms 
head  some  this  long  while.  He  used  to  come  up  to  my 
hut  u  good  deal,"  returned  Jarvie. 

The  despondent  and  despairing  lover,  seeing  hope 
after  hope  vanish  before  his  eyes  like  some  desert 
mirage,  at  last  committed  himself  to  the  step  that  his 
feeble  mind  told  him  would  bring  him  rest.  In  the 
stillness  of  the  summer  night  he  had  jumped  from  the 
little  bridge  in  among  the  frightened  fish,  and  the 
blackened  logs,  and  the  sedges,  and  the  grass ;  and 
there,  with  face  upturned  to  the  sky  of  midnight,  he 
breathed  out  his  soul  to  the  stars,  hoping,  in  his  weak- 
ness, for  some  other  life,  where  the  heart  would  be 
whole,  and  where  no  bitter  waters  should  be  given  the 
suffering  soul  to  drink  ! 

The  bubbles  had  risen  to  the  gurgling  surface,  as 
Death  drew  him  finally  down,  and  broken  in  the  mid- 
night silence,  one  by  one,  leaving  no  trace  of  the  deed 
that  was  concealed  below. 

The  poor  wanderer  was  sick  of  his  life,  and  foolishly 
plunged  into  another,  of  which  he  knew  even  less  than 
of  this. 


360  DOVECOTE. 

The  proper  arrangements  were  speedily  consummat- 
ed between  Jarvie  and  the  father  of  Milly,  and  Daisy 
went  away  to  live  with  her  new  protector.  It  was  hard 
parting  from  Jarvie ;  but  he  knew  it  would  be  for  her 
highest  good  in  the  end,  and  cheered  her  by  repeated 
promises  to  see  her  often. 

And  so  Daisy  came  to  supply  the  place  of  Milly, 
finding  in  the  stranger  only  the  parent  whose  tutoring 
care  she  should  have  had  years  before. 

Billy  Stokes  and  his  mother  were  placed  in  a  comfort- 
able little  snuggery  just  out  of  the  metropolis,  from 
which  Billy  went  in  every  day  to  the  new  occupation 
his  friend  had  found  for  him.  She  talked  much  of  the 
gentle  Mrs.  Markham  to  her  son ;  and  explained  to  him 
the  final  advantages  that  grew  out  of  honor,  let  the  pres- 
ent prospects  be  what  they  might  from  following  a  con- 
trary plan. 

And  Mrs.  Trevor  cared  well  for  Snarly  Moll ;  giving 
her  a  better  home  than  she  could  elsewhere  have  ex- 
pected to  find,  and  seeing  that  she  received  such  in- 
structions only  as  would  most  surely  and  substantially 
promote  her  happiness  in  the  world. 

Nor  was  poor  Mrs.  Trevelyn  forgotten,  with  her  pit- 
iable children.  The  hard  features  of  her  case  became 
instantly  known  to  those  other  actors  in  this  little  his- 
tory who  were  able  to  assist  her,  and  at  their  hands  she 
became  the  recipient  of  favors  and  kindnesses  that  lifted 
the  gloom  from  her  heart,  and  gave  her  renewed  strength 
to  meet  the  ills  and  trials  of  life. 

As  for  Byeboro' — but  let  that  be  forgotten,  with  its 
dismal  poorhouse,  its  swarming  paupers,  with  cruel  and 
heartless  Caleb  Flox,  and  poor  old  Ponce,  the  disabled 
hero,  and  Crazy  Jane,  who  kept  up  her  senseless  prat- 


CONCLUSION.  361 

tie  as  long  as  she  lived  —  and  all  the  rest  They  call  up 
dreary  thoughts,  that  no  healthy  heart  would  give  a 
place  to. 

All  these  are  among  the  versicolored  memories  of 
old  Dovecote.  There  is  that  rosy  tint  still  hanging  over 
the  roofs ;  there  are  those  streaks  of  sunshine  streaming 
through  the  windows  across  the  floor ;  there  are  those 
same  white  and  blue  smokes,  sailing  up  from  the  chim- 
neys to  the  sky ;  and  these  memories  intertwisted  with 
them  all,  like  threads  of  light,  azure  and  golden,  that 
are  swiftly  flying  on  the  shuttles  of  thought  through  the 
life -warp. 

The  glorious  home  sunrises  and  the  gorgeous  sunsets 
are  but  living  pictures  all,  off  of  which  the  heart  may 
feed  and  never  be  full.  The  white  moonlight  glimpses 
of  the  evenings  are  but  soft  and  tender  murmurs  in  the 
sensitive  ear  of  memory,  filling  its  chambers  with  lulling 
melodies  like  the  music  of  flutes. 

Far  apart  as  this  and  the  old  time  are,  I  can  see  the 
red  sunset  burning  in  the  western  windows,  and  gilding 
the  crests  of  the  towering  elms.  The  entire  spot  is  in- 
framed  and  set  about  as  with  burnished  gold.  And 
there  the  heart  loves  to  rest  itself,  far  from  the  dust  of 
life's  highways,  where  nothing  but  peace  sleeps  ever  in 
the  leaves,  and  nothing  but  balm  drops  down  from  the 
branches. 

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